The Kryptonite Job
by Valawenel
Summary: What happens when Eliot Spencer finally steps into the trap James Sterling prepared for him for six months, using Florence as a bait? Will Leverage Team arrive on time to save Eliot form Sterling? Or to save Sterling from Eliot? Or to save both of them from Florence? OC Romance, sort of case/fic, a little drama, tragedy, humor, and even Betsy. 4 days before The Rundown Job.
1. Chapter 1

This is the first story in TML series that can't stand alone. You have to read The Season Six Job… and maybe The Arch-nemesis Job first.

This is mainly a romance, written for readers who've been waiting for too long to see what happened with Eliot/Florence plot. I don't think I'll write romances so often, so I tried to give you here as much as I could. This is PG-13, so no explicit sex scenes, but I made it as hot as I could. I think you'll be satisfied – and you have to be, because this romance thing screwed my structure completely.

Basically nothing happens in this first chapter, because I had to remind you all about the situation, and set things for Sterling and a plot. Yes, there'll be the plot. I hope only one. In fact, though nothing is happening in the first few chapters, except two of them together, it's full of plotting :D The plot jumps out from everything they say or do. Pay attention. It will explode, don't worry – but I had to give this time to two of them, not only to readers.

And don't be too harsh – romance is way out of my comfort zone, and I'm still not sure is this good enough for E/F. Maybe they deserve better writer, not the one who is writing fluff, and cooing, and kissing, all in the beginning, so she could skip that and jump into the action. :/

I would really appreciate some feedback this time. If this sucks, tell me. ( I'm not worried about the first chapter, as I said, nothing really happens there – I'm worried about Chapters 2&amp;3)

Thank you.

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PS: I'm on Chapter 4 right now, and still working on 2 and 3. I planned chapters to be about 5000 words each, and set an outline for ten chapters. For now, they have more than 10 000 each. I mentioned the ruined structure, and that means that damn romance prolonged everything, and I'll have to squeeze action in Act 2 and Act 3. We all know it ain't gonna happen, so we have another long story. Figures. Wish me luck.

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The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 1

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"Florence, wait! My mother wants cute, fat, golden-haired grandchildren, and you're perfect!"

Florence McCoy felt her cocktail going in the wrong direction, but she managed to stop the orange drink from spurting from her nose at the bunch of journalists who were taking her statement. Keeping her eyes level, and not glancing down her body – lean and perfect, not nearly close to fat – was much harder. She quickly eyed the incoming sturdy package wrapped in a smile and crowned with ruffled hair almost as golden as hers. Frank, who played Buck Wilmington on her show The Magnificent Seven: The Next Generation flashed that killer smile at journalists, melting them instantly.

"I need you to come with me." He took her hand and dragged her away, avoiding the groups of chatting people. "I wasn't kidding; my mother thinks all long-legged women are vampires in a race for my money. You're short, you'll be perfect."

"Comforting your mother is the last thing on my mind right now," she said. "Even the fact that you almost called me fat isn't important."

"I know, I know, but humor me. You aren't fat, you're miniature, so you aren't a threat. Stay here, look gentle and smile."

She did what he had told her; smiling at the flashes was, after all, the thing she had already done several dozen times this night. The premiere of the first episode of her show, after all the fuss and noise in the media regarding cancelation and miraculous renewal from CBS, gathered again a huge interest.

She should've been happy about it, but she could not enjoy it thoroughly; her eyes darted all around in search for only one face.

"Isn't it too early for any effect of your show now?" Buck asked – all of them called him Buck, it was an internal joke – and she turned around to meet his eyes. The reporters cleared out after taking photos, nobody was near them for a moment.

He knew what she was waiting for. He was the only one who knew why her first episode had a female writer who used her book to find a man she had lost, and whom she could not find. That trust was a result of one half-drunk evening when shooting started, when he was miserable, and she was lonely and hopeless.

They had sneaked from the set together and ended up in a park with a bottle. He told her he was gay – a shock that would destroy the lives of numerous fan girls all over the world – and all his troubles with hiding it. She told him about her divorce, and how she fell for a man with a suspicious past, who disappeared from her life before she could tell him she was free.

Of course she did not tell him anything concrete about Eliot Spencer and Leverage Consulting and Associates, it would be too dangerous. But she still remembered how Buck comforted her at the PVA ceremony, although he was much more scared than she was. She liked him immensely. And she still could not tell him that she was the one who was responsible for his false kidnapping, and who put him as a hero in the spotlight that same day.

"I mean, the episode just aired," he continued when she said nothing. "If he watched it at all, he would only now decide to come – and he could be anywhere in the world. It's Sunday evening, not a good time for travel arrangements. Give him time."

She did start to check her phone the moment when Rosalie on screen revealed her attempt to find her lost love. Nothing. "I know. I'll be patient." Not to mention that she knew he would not call – it was a security risk. Eliot would never let his paranoia subside, especially when she was in question.

But what if all the pros and cons of his coming to her would be decided only by that paranoia? What if he felt that a love affair was not worth all the trouble? What if he had found someone else, or simply let their feelings for each other sink in the past, where they really belonged? More than six months had passed.

"You have to give him more time," Buck said. "He might be busy, or out of the country, or having difficulty catching CBS – maybe he will watch it in a few days. You don't know. So, stop scanning the crowd, and start enjoying this night, okay?"

Days? She was half crazy already. "You're not helping," she gritted the words with effort.

"I'm not trying to help, on the contrary," he grinned with his world-known boyish smile. "If reporters catch you with that morose, thoughtful expression on your cute little face, my mother will decide you're The One, and stop jerking my chain." He turned her around, almost spilling her cocktail, directly into more flashes. She forced a smile and accepted a hug. Who knew, if Eliot did not watch the episode, maybe he would see news about the premiere and remember the episode aired tonight. Media coverage was on her side now.

Premiere tonight, tomorrow three interviews, and big M7 Convention, with meeting of the fans, more interviews, and more reporters. Eliot would have to be in the Antarctic to miss all that – and even if he missed it, she doubted that would skip by Hardison. That thought brought a little relief. There were five of them; one of them would watch it, if for nothing else than to see their efforts coming to life. You do not almost give your life to renew a show, and then do not check to see was it worth it or not.

"And now, come with me and flirt with that handsome guy by the window. He is sending mixed signals, you have to tell me if he's reacting to you, or to me."

She quickly glanced at direction he pointed at, half ready to see Eliot glaring at them, but no – the guy was blond and unknown.

"Well, it's obvious he won't come here tonight, so I might as well spend the evening as a gay tester kit."

"But you're perfect for that! You're adorable, and sweet, my mother likes you and thinks you're a fluffy angel – don't laugh, tall women are all scary bones and high heels – and when you smile people melt. You're melting _me_, and that's a success."

"Oh, shut up, I'll do it; stop with all the flirting."

Of course, she spent the rest of the evening trying to hide from that blond guy, after he took her flirting seriously.

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She hadn't touched her phone again until she got home. She slipped into her old robe, made tea and cuddled with Orion, and only then did she dare take a look at emails, Twitter, Google plus, and all alerts set to her accounts. All her crew was live tweeting during the airing of the episode, and the mess of hashtags and messages was indescribable. She would need a sieve to go through all that, to find Eliot's eventual message.

_Very eventual message_. Sometimes, especially during the nights, she thought how useless and stupid her hopes were. Only fool's hope, based on a plot twist in a stupid show. He could easily think that she simply used her own experience, like writers often did, to make a plot. Or even worse, that it was some sort of mocking of their affair, showing him it was only good to be used for the episode.

Yet, however else she could have tried to find him, it would have ended with him caught, or killed. Interpol, State Police, FBI… all of them were after Leverage Consulting and Associates. Nate's apartment – now hers, she bought it – was still under surveillance, and she knew she was a sitting duck, bait for all of them. Any attempt in contact would close a trap.

_Nate's apartment_. "I'm an idiot," she whispered to Orion. She quickly put him on the working table, and hurried into the corridor that separated their two apartments. Only two of them were on this floor and she could go freely, not bothering with changing.

When they had to retreat, while she was in New Zealand, Eliot left for her a marzipan rose in Nate's bathroom. If he was in Boston, that was a place to find a message, not her phone.

She hurried through the half-full living room, and upstairs. She had decided to fill apartment A2 with the same furniture it contained before, and that filled her months with joy and pain at the same time.

But the bathroom was empty. No message, no roses – the same as she had left it.

Her steps, when she climbed down, echoed through the lifeless room.

No furniture could bring this place to life again, no matter how perfect she guessed the color of the sofa. She slowly reached and touched the dark green sofa; this one was new, it didn't have marzipan smudged where she had sat on it when they kissed. That sofa was gone. This one was just a replica, a false substitute, just like everything else here was.

Her throat clenched, and she swallowed a painful lump in it.

The last voice in this room was not Eliot's, she was robbed even of that – it was James Sterling from Interpol: a dangerous, dangerous man who was after them, and whose hand she still felt squeezing around her. If she only blinked at the direction of the Team, he would find them.

She had checked everything; she wasn't stupid. Her IT guys searched her apartment and found bugs, and things crawling all over her Internet connections. Hardison would know exactly… but Hardison was far away. She hadn't removed the surveillance, she left everything in place. Only if they thought she wasn't suspecting anything, could she hope of their interest to turn away from her. Months had passed, and maybe she was finally proclaimed useless. For FBI and State Police, yes, probably – but she wasn't sure about Interpol.

Sterling knew her role in the PVA action, in bringing Don Lazzara down. Worst of all, he saw Eliot's rose in her hand that night. She wasn't only a client for them, and in his mind, she was still a clear lead, a booby trap that would snap sooner or later.

She dreamt his smile a few times, and his soft British accent had slowly rolled over the dark tunnels under the PVA ceremony while they retreated. Mocking them, laughing in the darkness, as it was closing in.

The last voice in this room almost erased her memory of Eliot's raspy drawl, filled with warmth and laughter. Even his face sometimes was blurred in her mind.

She perched herself on the sofa and curled up with her phone. She had to stop this spiraling into despair, and working would divert her mind from all fears and doubts. Hope was all she had now, and she couldn't afford to lose it.

It took almost an hour to go through her emails and Google plus. She brought her laptop at one point, and worked there on the sofa, in front of six dead screens.

Twitter was next.

It felt like swimming against the current. For every hundred tweets she checked and read, five hundred new arrived, and her eyes burned.

_Open a tweet; check its username; check the bio; read the tweet. Repeat_.

Any other time she would spend some time replying, retweeting, thanking fans for watching, but now she searched only for something familiar, something that could be from him.

Three hours and couple of thousand tweets later, she saw the username MASSACHUSSETTS GENERAL, and her heart skipped a beat.

Nothing strange, it said only: _Congratulations, episode was terrific, keep up the good work_… but she opened that profile. No cover photo, egg instead of avatar, and join date was yesterday.

This could be nothing, but she replied with _Thank you for watching_, and crossed her fingers, waiting.

The reply came immediately: _I'll make sure that everyone I know watches THIS episode. Even those who are out of country now. Good luck, little chicken_.

Oh. She leaned back into the backrest.

This wasn't Eliot. This was Betsy. She had called her little chicken that dreadful night in Mass Gen after the PVA slaughter; the nurse knew she would remember that.

She typed one quick: _Thank you_, and put her phone on silent.

She didn't dare contact her all this time, knowing she could direct the surveillance toward her. Betsy was maybe in contact with the Team, and using her, Sterling could find them.

_Even those who are out of country now_. Yes, she was definitely in contact with them, and Eliot wasn't in state. He couldn't watch the episode, but Betsy would tell him.

Relief was, for a few moments, more painful than despair.

This _worked_.

She picked up all her things and crawled back to her apartment. Dawn was nearing.

She was exhausted, tired of fear, doubt, and hope. Yet, not even Orion's purring and snuggling could stop her frantic thoughts chasing one another in a constant whirlpool.

She knew she wouldn't sleep this night, and she had three interviews and a tiresome half-day long M7 Convention. Today would be a day for surviving, not enjoying. Who knew where he was, and when he was due home; maybe they all worked on some international job. It could take days before Betsy could reach him. Maybe weeks.

But now she had at least one slim confirmation that her hope wasn't in vain.

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Eliot Spencer was so immensely pissed off that he couldn't believe people didn't hear his teeth gritting as he tried to speak without growling.

"Yes, as I said twice before," he repeated slowly to an indifferent guy at the other side of a bulletproof glass. "Two child seats; an infant one on the passenger seat, and one for a six year old behind it. Chrysler Aspen, silver or black, dark windows if you have them. You already authorized the credit card, and I don't see why everything is taking so long."

"The seats you requested are just installed, everything is ready." A new voice, female, jumped in before the guy could think of what to say. Eliot slowly turned around to a young redhead in a suit, with a plastic smile, and keys in her hand.

He stopped himself from snatching the keys and marching away, and forced a smile. He was pretty sure she could see steam coming out of his head, and his reserves of charm were depleted like never before. Boston women did fall for Southern drawl, in spite of their usually raised eyebrows, but now he didn't even try. "Thank you," he said shortly, and _then_ snatched the keys.

He didn't march while going to the parking lot, though pissed off customers probably weren't something new here; they didn't have bulletproof glass without good reason. He took some time to check and test both child seats, because that was a thing every parent would do, using that time to check his wallet and IDs he had. He used a seven-rank credit card. Hardison had tried to explain all things he did with that, a long time ago, but he translated his twelve-minute monologue in only two useful facts. _Untraceable_, after seven transfers via protected accounts, all leading to different people, none of which were connected to him. And '_use it only when it's really important'_.

The fact he wasn't sure was this – whatever _this_ was – falling into really important category, was the main cause for his distress. And Eliot Spencer, by default, wasn't ever unsure of things.

He set his rage to burn on a lower temperature until he found out what was pissing him off so immensely. For now, Boston was fighting for first place. This damn town was too small and too huge at the same time. It took only fifteen minutes before he drove to the center from Logan Airport, in spite of the afternoon traffic jams, and he needed a couple of hours of driving to clear his mind.

Only yesterday he was flying from Afghanistan – a journey that started yesterday morning, took a whole day and entire night. This morning he was back in Portland. He took exactly three sips of coffee, snatched from Nate, and headed for Boston. Time zones, days, hours, nights and sunshine, everything was so fucked up that he couldn't calculate which day it was at all. The jet lag trying to attack him, just counted the miles he flew across all over three continents, then curled up and died.

It took five intersections before he decided it was probably Monday. Premieres were usually on Sunday; that would be last night. Hardison had sent him that damn episode when he was already on the plane to Boston, to see Betsy. Only a few hours ago.

Only when he noticed his hands hurt, did he became aware he was two seconds from distorting the wheel he clutched. He relaxed his shoulders a little, and tried to take one deep, calming breath. The result was pathetic.

After Florence left Nate's apartment, all those months ago, he scratched her from his life. _Finished_. Month after month, he repeated that _finished_, not letting pain and loss rule his life. He was the only one who welcomed their retreat from Boston. Seeing her upon her return, with her damn husband, in their corridor, would kill him.

And now _this_.

What the hell he was supposed to do now, to think now, and to _feel_? His progress was linear; he was able to watch other women again without the sinking feeling in his heart. He was even able to think of her without that searing pain. He was recovering.

And now _this_.

He was waiting for the green light, in rush hour, and slamming his head at the wheel would drive unwanted attention towards him. That thought only reminded him of his automatic going into stealth mode when he watched that trice cursed episode, when he realized what she was trying to tell him. He activated the strongest security protocols in his mind, even before he decided what to do. Hell, no, there was no decision. Not really.

All those months just… disappeared. As if she never left. As if he kissed her only a minute ago. As if…

He was stunned. And dammit, Eliot Spencer wasn't a man who could be stunned, not even with hope. To be honest, he hadn't ever tried that, that… hope thing. It was dangerous. And stupid. No wonder his rage boiled up to the point where he could barely control it.

The thing he hated the most, was all he had done during the flight. Hours and hours of staring into the seat in front of him, while bombarded with all possibilities, pushed him into organization frenzy. He arranged every damn thing, every detail of today. Nothing he did was new; he had many plans ready a long time ago, back when the possibility of their eventual being together was nigh on a one-percent chance. He collected every old idea, wrapped it up into four veils of _safe-safer-the safest- are you nuts?_ and started things, pushed everything into motion.

All of that while he didn't know to what, exactly, he was heading. And he couldn't calculate the percentage of possibility that this was all one giant misunderstanding. For a guy who could tell – who needed to be able to tell, to stay alive – the exact percentage of chances he had upon only one glance at approaching attackers, the feeling was upsetting and humiliating.

A ping of incoming message scraped across his overheated nerves like a rusty razor, and he checked the phone. Betsy's second message, confirmation of the meeting point. He typed the address into the GPS, and relaxed his grip on the wheel.

The Team was another problem. Their silence, after Hardison sent the episode, was deafening. Of course he preferred them staying the hell out of his business; they knew that, and this communication void was expected. Yet, the mere thought that they knew where he was going and why, the thought they all watched that episode and got every message from it, was making his skin crawl. The only worse thing than this would be if he were forced to watch the episode with them. That would be… un-survivable. He had no earbud and his phone was silent, and nevertheless, he had their voices in his head, every voice with its own monologue. Only Parker was more or less silent, the three of them spoke non-stop.

_Yeah, thank you all_; he knew what they would tell him.

He should strangle that damn woman for bringing this turmoil into his life again; for forcing him to reopen old wounds that had already healed; for making him - _whining, pitiful, a frightened piece of shit_ – upset. Yeah, he was upset. Only that.

He parked the car one block from the café where Betsy was waiting, and used a ten-minute walk to buy car window shades adorned with a dancing Garfield; and few more things.

Another reason for completely losing it was waiting for him when he arrived at the terrace. Betsy wasn't alone. She sat with two women around her age, and all three of them were cackling at fast pace. He scanned the surroundings; every face under the roof of the terrace, all cars parked nearby, windows, roofs, just as he checked all entrances and escape paths as he walked.

His mind, set into highest security alert mode, was screaming in agony.

"Ah, there you are, finally." Betsy noticed him and simply waved. _Finally_? It took seven hours from the office in Portland, to this table in Boston; he never made that distance this fast.

Did she expect him to simply sit with them and chat? He tried not to glare at her, for a moment too mad to articulate all the dangers of this reckless behavior.

"Oooh, handsome, come sit with us!" One of the ladies – geez, she was double his age – eyed him with a smile.

"You look strange, again." Betsy paid no attention to her friend. Her eyes weren't mad, in spite of her yelling on the phone this morning, but weren't gentle either. Narrowed and piercing was the best description. "You're upright, again."

"Upright?" The other woman asked.

Betsy broke her gaze from him, and turned her head to the women. "Not used to seeing him walking," she said dead-pan. "I was used to seeing him in the horizontal position, in bed. Mostly naked, of course. In fact, that's how I left him, when I saw him the last time, before he… simply went away."

Two shocked sounds escaped her friends – Eliot was careful not to do the same – and they both quickly got up. "We'll leave you two to talk." And with that, they hurried away.

"Was that really necessary?" he grumbled the words out.

"You blush adorably." Her face changed into a normal smile, at last. "They glued to me when I sat down, and I couldn't get rid of them. This way they won't talk about Betsy meeting some suspicious, murky guy – their story will be too rich for anyone to take it seriously. Will you sit, finally?"

_Female Nate_, Parker had called her. Sometimes that statement was too pale a shadow. He sat, leaned in the chair, and tried to look relaxed. It would be useful to switch his mind from Florence to Betsy. Maybe he would even manage to stop this panicky spiral he was drawn into.

Six months hadn't changed her a bit; she even looked much younger than he remembered. It was always very hard to guess her age. Her dark skin had almost no wrinkles at all, and black hair revealed only a few whites, but her eyes were old. Between fifty and sixty. She had two sons, and at least one of them was over thirty.

When she smiled again, and her face softened, he noticed what was different. Her eyes weren't tired. "You're not working?" he asked.

"A few days leave, ending tomorrow. Why?"

"You were up very early this morning," he said carefully.

"No. You're forgetting time zones; Boston is three hours ahead of Portland. Which isn't too strange knowing how many of them you crossed recently."

And there they were… immediately onto the main subject. There was no beating around the bush with her. He still wasn't completely sure what provoked her rage this morning. Okay, he did promise he wouldn't try to repay her for saving his life, and taking care of him… and being a friend – but there was no way he could sit home and do nothing knowing her son was being held captive in Afghanistan. He had to try. He would do that for any friend, it was only…the right thing to do. And in the end he simply bought him back, it wasn't even dangerous.

He sighed, watching her stir her coffee. "I'm a retrieval specialist, Betsy," he started, slowly. "I retrieve things, items, people, money. I know you are pissed off because I did that, but that's my job. That's what I do."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "You are, also, either very tired, or very naïve," she said. "I'm not mad. I'm grateful. You really thought I was angry?"

"You're always angry at me with no reason at all."

"No reason? Don't you go there, young man, or I shall get angry _now_. You're a walking stupidity, you know that? Your decisions, connected with your health, are simply indescribable and…" She stopped and shook her head. "No, stop diverting me. Yes, I yelled and raged when we talked – I had to distress you so much that you'd come from Portland to Boston without thinking, immediately."

"You could've just told me to come."

"And you would have come to Boston, just like that?"

He just smiled, and said nothing. He would walk that distance, if needed, for her.

The sharp edge in her eyes softened a little more. "Two reasons," she said. "I wanted to see you and thank you – no, stop, let me finish – and I wanted you to be in Boston, today. Something is happening, and your presence here will be-"

At first he thought something was happening with her, but then he got it. "This is all about-" He almost said her name in public, and stopped in the last second. "You were watching CBS last night? That's what you're trying to tell me?"

"I thought you were on your way back to States last night."

"I was, but Hardison was on the watch out. He sent _it_ to me, and I watched it on the plane to Boston."

She left her cup, leaned back into her chair, and tented her fingers. "So?" she asked. Her eyes, damn her, were laughing. "Did you like the plot and characterization?"

Almost forgotten steam once again boiled within his head. He was a _private_ person. Not only for security reasons. But it was impossible to be mad at her when her eyes were so gentle. No, worse – it was impossible to be mad at her at all.

She didn't wait for his reply, thank god, because his mind was blank and he had no idea what and how much to say; she took her purse and took something from it. "I brought the episode here, just in case you hadn't had a chance to watch it, but I have something else." She gave him a piece of paper. "M7 Convention. It has already started. Hundreds of fans, reporters, the entire crew… everybody will be there. If I calculated the distance correctly, it's just a five minute walk from here."

He took the paper, tore it in small pieces, and sank them into her glass of water. "I know about the Convention," he said. "I had nothing to do while flying, so I read about…well, it. Everything."

"So, you _did_ like the plot then?"

The steam whirled. He would _not_ talk about his private life, about his feelings, about anything. This setup, and her trick to get him here, was bad enough. One more person who knew what was going on, besides the team. Five too many.

The thought that he was the one who didn't, exactly, know what was really going on, made this shit even nastier. And the lean, calm woman in front of him read his every thought, every feeling, with disturbing precision. Her gaze touched every knotted muscle in his arms, measured his too controlled breathing – the old habit in her presence in which he sank without noticing it until now – and softened again when she locked onto his eyes.

"What do you want, Eliot?" Her voice was gentle, but the question was deadly.

Hundreds of explanations, troubles, worries, what ifs, all together clenched in his throat, and he choked on the first word.

"I see," she added quietly when silence stretched over five seconds. "Okay, let's be practical, for a change. How long can you stay here?"

"Two days before going directly to Washington DC, to meet the others there. We have a job waiting." He replied with ease, automatically, the dam broke. He quickly continued to use it, "This time Nate is splitting the team, he and Sophie will stay in Portland and do their part of the job there."

"So you have enough time to decide what to do here."

"It's not about the time, Betsy." It was about confusion and mixed signals, and his rage. "It is, to be honest… but about the shooting time, and production time. Not time in general."

"I'm not following you."

He sighed, using that to unknot his muscles. "It takes several months for shooting and production of a season. That episode was written six months ago, being the first in the season. And it's very hard to change the script during that period… if you changed your mind in the meantime and want to put something else in it." Ah damn, he said too much, he could feel her attention rising.

"I sent her a tweet last night," she said. "Put Massachusetts General as the name. She replied immediately. I checked later, that was the only tweet she replied to. I told her I'd make sure that everyone I knew watched the episode, and she said thank you. That doesn't sound as if something changed during the production. It's public, so we couldn't…" she stopped and frowned. "It's that message thingy with a cute blue bird, Eliot."

"Hey, I know what Twitter is! I saw her using it." He crossed his arms and stretched out his legs, forcing himself to ignore her words. They would just mess with him further, add to this uncertainty, and trouble him more. There was only one way to find out what the hell was really going on, and he knew he had to move.

Right now, all he wanted was to sit here with Betsy for the next ten hours, and _not_ move.

He clutched his arms tighter and glared at her, not quite certain why he felt half offended, and half sulky. Maybe because she looked as if she was about to produce popcorn out of thin air – her too bright eyes showed her entertainment with the whole situation. Great, he simply adored being an object of someone's amusement. He vented a little steam in a barely audible growl, and decided to preserve any dignity he still had.

"Eliot," she said. He twitched and schooled his face into polite interest.

"A wise man once said," she went on quietly, "that everything you want, is on the other side of fear."

He froze. It did help in keeping his face unreadable, but his heart sank deep, deep under the frozen surface. One could count on Betsy to poke directly into the core of this shit.

"Ah, motivational crap from Facebook?" he asked with his voice too light, with his smile too quick.

"How's George doing?" She ran over his words as if he said nothing. Her every damn word was a poke into his bruises – professional deformation – and she was an expert in finding the hidden ones.

"He doesn't like all that rain in Portland. I bought him a dehumidifier."

"Yes, he did like Boston – he was happy here." With that, she got up, while he was still trying to decipher her words. She took her purse and two bags, glancing at his bag; good thing it was closed so she couldn't see what was inside.

"Where are you going?" he tried not to sound alarmed.

"To pick up my grandkids." Yes, she was definitely enjoying this, her eyes laughed. "And you're going to sit here for a little while, and then decide how you're gonna spend those two days you have."

"I never said I wouldn't-"

"Oh, shut up," she leant to him and ruffled his hair. "Just don't mess this up, okay?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, buying time for a more eloquent reply that should've kept her here, but before he could come up with anything, only her laughter lingered on the terrace. She was gone.

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Florence slept exactly seven minutes before her alarm shrieked and she jumped out of bed, followed with a soft British whisper. Her hair was still wet when she hurried out to the waiting taxi, not because she didn't have time to dry it while putting make-up on; no, she simply forgot it.

The way her day started, it continued. She was late for the first interview, and talked nonsense in the second one, until somebody noticed her trouble and brought her her first coffee for that day. The third interview she squeezed between a meeting with sponsors and her crew, and that one was a disaster with technical troubles, with one sparkling wire three inches from her feet, and more nonsense from her part.

Of course, all of that was interrupted by traffic jams and closed roads, and on top of all that, she almost sprained her ankle when she stormed in to the M7 Convention.

Hundreds of fans witnessed Florence McCoy heading for the café in the huge hall, and stuffing her face with food. The afternoon was a lousy time to have the first meal of the day.

Yet, surprisingly, she managed to relax when a familiar routine started. Knowing that Eliot was – presumably – out of the country so there was no point in waiting for him, helped her calm down the most. To be honest, Betsy's involvement was a sign that everything would work out in the end – Betsy made everything possible.

Her actors were stars here, so she could sneak into the background when she wanted and needed a pause, and her fretting nerves calmed down to an almost enjoyable level.

The organizers outdid themselves this time. Every guest had a personal hostess who took care of the schedule and all details; a group of tall, gorgeous women in similar dark grey suits. Their hair pulled back in a classical high bun, and Florence felt like a hippie with her untidy locks, each of them running in different directions. She had chosen brown and gold today for herself. The rich earth tone of her trousers and loose jacket were warm and relaxed, but still classy, and a golden blouse added to her glow. Yet, when she stood by her hostess-assistant, a slim oriental beauty, all in black and white, she felt like an orange Poodle next to a gracious Doberman. Even the girl's shirt collar was as sharp as a needle – flared butterfly, dazzling white and starched. At least her hostess had a warm tone to her skin. Buck wasn't that lucky. He got a Nordic goddess, as tall as he was, cold and perfect like an ice sculpture. His mother would be very annoyed when she saw the pictures.

Min-Jung was the name of her hostess. In spite of a professional coldness, the girl had a mischievous smile, and she was excellent in clearing the way through throngs of fans.

The panel with actors took more than an hour, but the atmosphere was vibrating with excitement and true love: questions sparked laughter, fans were happy, Buck and Vin charmed even inanimate objects, and she enjoyed every minute of it.

"The next stop is signing books and personal items," Min-Jung directed her when they scattered to mingle among fans, after the panel ended with a standing ovation.

"I hoped for a pause and coffee," Florence said. "My blood sugar has dropped, you don't want me to faint here, right?"

Her Oriental Goddess – _yeah, call her HOG, sure_ – checked her tablet with a frown that creased two small wrinkles between her eyebrows. "Would some chocolate, and coffee with it, help your blood sugar? I can push the Sponsor Package Receiving before Book Signing-"

"Somebody said chocolate?" Buck and His Nordic Goddess – _oh, stop with that! Her name is Denise_ – joined them.

Both hostesses exchanged similar, small desperate smiles, the sort of smile that kindergarten teachers would have worn at the end of a long, long day with their class in a Red Bull factory with degustation.

"Follow me," Min-Jung sighed, leading the way to the second booth in a row, now empty.

Wooden boxes, shaped as treasure chests, had their names engraved in dark mahogany.

"With the compliments of your sponsors," Min-Jung said, giving her the chest with a small bow.

Florence almost laughed when she opened it, and Sophie's finely modulated voice echoed in her ear for a few seconds. Samsung won the sponsorship over Apple – her gift was a new tablet with a golden stylus, laid on the top of chocolate pralines.

Buck got the same gift. The hostesses explained to him what to do with it, both of them charmed to the bone – a trick he perfected a long time ago – and Florence was grateful for a few moments of ease. And for chocolate.

Buck would never know how Sophie had pushed Apple and Samsung into yet another war in only three minutes, and made them fight over a sponsorship they hadn't even considered in the first place. He would never know Sophie was one of the kidnappers, the one whom he bit on the ankle. The worst of it all, none of these people would know who made this happen, which had secured their jobs and careers, and gave them a chance at another five years. They almost all died – for her, for them.

It was so unfair.

And she missed them so much. All five of them.

She withdrew a few more steps back in the booth and sat on the desk where the other gifts were piled up. The Samsung tablet didn't provoke much attention from her. After she turned it on, and read the personalized message, she put it back in the box and concentrated on chocolate.

"Excuse me, Miss, can you sign something for me?" a young voice from the entrance said. She looked at a boy who peered into the booth; he held a small package in his hand.

"No, you have to wait, signing is yet to-" Min-Jung immediately took a step forward, but Florence waved her hand.

"Let him in, Min-Jung, I have time now."

Both hostesses glared at that rude protocol breach, but she didn't care. "It's a PR thing," she said. She was extremely unnerved with the tight procedure – her usual 'spending time with fans' was always more relaxed and pleasant. "Come here," she said to the boy when the girls turned to Buck again. "Take care of these 'til I sign it," she poured a handful of pralines into his hand, and observed a little box.

"It's for my brother, who couldn't come with me," the boy said. "He told me to make up a sad story, that you have a soft spot for cats and plants – but I couldn't think of anything. Will you sign it?"

"Of course, darling," she said, suddenly feeling all her thoughts slowing down. _Soft spot for cats and plants_. No, that was only a coincidence, that didn't mean anything…

Yet, she glanced at Buck and the girls; they laughed together, picking at pralines, and paying no attention to her.

She opened it, and stared inside to see a plastic toy, in too bright green and yellow colors.

"He also said that I can clear out when you open it," the boy grinned, put all the pralines in his mouth, and walked away.

The pen was forgotten in her hand.

It was a bazooka. A plastic toy, probably squirting, she didn't bother to check. She only stared at it, with a happy, stupid smile.

Eliot was here.

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Eliot should've waited for her at home, at her apartment, in spite of probable surveillance on Nate's apartment so close to her. This place swarmed with people and he simply couldn't check everything. Not without two days of preparation, scanning, background checks, and all necessary steps he usually took while preparing a heist. Because, well, this was almost a heist.

His old reflexes cut in, and paranoia flowed freely with every step he took forward. He didn't know, couldn't be sure, what exactly was entering with him. Every damn burden from his past now lay heavy on his shoulders. Every one of them could reach over the same shoulder with its dead, cold finger – and touch _her_.

Bounties on his head, countless enemies, revenges that were cast upon him, not to mention all the marks Leverage had screwed over their five years… they could be after him, close, _right now_.

It wasn't likely, though. If some of them were near, if he triggered some invisible tracker and got them on his tail, they would deal with him before, on the street, and not wait for him to enter a crowded Convention. Yet, the feeling remained.

He had made five thorough checks around the building before joining the fans. Escape routes, all possible ways in and out, troubles and obstacles; the perimeter was clean for now.

The interior was another story, and his alarms stirred in unease.

There was too much security, and at least four times more surveillance cameras than was needed for a benign fan convention. There could be many reasons for that – maybe CBS paid more attention to the safety of its stars. Some of them might be the target of some deranged fan, or receiving threats. Maybe the security protocols were put on a higher level because some other trouble. It took only one look at the bunch of glorious hostesses in black suits, to know they were security with police training. Only policewomen would stand in a parade stance, their hands on their backs, while impersonating hostesses who should be everywhere, bouncing as light as a feather, chirping and smiling.

Cameras recorded _everything_.

There was a blind spot two meters from the entrance, and he used it to calculate his steps from blind spot to blind spot. Not worthy of effort. It would take too much time, and from this place he couldn't see the cameras deeper in the hall. But, there was another route he could take. Somebody was watching that feed, and if one small diversion-

A familiar sound shattered his concentration in a second; he would recognize that laugh amongst hundreds of loud voices. In fact, he just did. _A sound of sunshine_, he called it when he heard it for the first time.

He turned around and glanced, caught her for a second out of a corner of his eye. The two black clad women with her were gorgeous – she was only pretty. But she dazzled gold and warmth; it was like somebody put a bush of golden daffodils between two black wooden poles.

That laugh didn't remind him of a love he managed to suppress – it returned him to the pure joy she had always awoken in him, when she made him want to live; because of her.

Damn, he was so screwed.

He turned around and went out, joining the fans that were smoking and chatting in groups in front of the door.

Only when he became invisible in the crowd outside, did he allow himself to admit that making this a security issue didn't erase the main problem here: a fear that gnawed at him – fear of rekindled hope.

He snapped his fingers and a boy standing next to him looked at him. "Wanna earn a hundred bucks?"

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Florence dearly hoped no fan was nearby with a camera phone, because her attempts at signaling Buck what was going on looked like a combination of facial yoga and an epileptic seizure. Finally, his eyes glowed with understanding, after a painful five seconds of utter incomprehension while he stared at her twitching eyebrows. He grinned, put his arms around the shoulders of both hostesses, and asked them to take him to the rest of the crew.

Min-Jung immediately stepped away, and Florence knew she had to get rid of her if she didn't want to spend ten minutes explaining.

"Min-Jung, would you please be so kind to go with Buck? Only five minutes? I need some time in peace to work on my questions for the next interview – I really need to concentrate on that."

"I'll be outside if you need me," Min-Jung followed Buck and Denise. Well, that would do. The Samsung box came in handy now; she put the bazooka in it and closed it, pushed it under one arm along with her hand bag, and simply removed the panels that made up the back wall of the booth. She slipped through the opening, lowered her head so the locks covered her face, and mingled through the people.

Her mind whirled in frantic chaos. _He was here_. But Eliot Spencer wouldn't risk simply showing up. She had to find him. Where were the escape routes? What would he consider a safe meeting spot?

She paced up and down the hall, checking everything, avoiding anyone familiar, and the hostesses.

Four rear exits. She'd been here before, and she knew two of them led to a parking lot. It would be too open for him, and it would have cameras. The building was connected with another one, slightly taller, and they had a common backyard. The third exit led to that, but it was closed and narrow, some sort of a dirty passage with lots of dumpsters. It had only one entrance spot, and Eliot wouldn't risk being caught in a place with no retreat, surrounded with walls. The last exit was the only choice – auxiliary pathway with a cleared bay for emergency vehicles. It would've been very busy during the day, with deliveries and workers, but this late in the afternoon it would be empty.

She chose the fourth door with an 'employees only' sign, and left the hall.

Yet, with every step, her happy grin subsided.

What if she felt nothing when she finally saw him? She stubbornly held on to this love for such a long time; people built expectations in their minds and hearts, and thoughts and imagination were much stronger than reality.

When she finally sneaked out and saw him at the end of the driveway, she stopped as if someone had cut off her legs.

She loved a memory. The man waiting for her in that back street, leaning on the car hood, was unknown. This wasn't the Eliot Spencer she remembered. His, his… shape… was different.

He wore a blue plaid shirt and black jacket, and his head was lowered to his phone. His hair was _cut_. It had curled in the rain, and even in a ponytail it was a wild mane, she remembered; now those straight whips barely covered his eyes and nose. His stance was wrong. Though he wasn't moving, there was a sensation of a coiled spring inside him, an aura of strength and hidden danger that he revealed before, sometimes - and when needed – now it seemed to be a constant state.

She clutched the box and drew in one shaky breath. He was more than twenty meters away and he couldn't hear that sound, yet he raised his head and looked directly in her eyes.

_Oh_. So that was how he looked when not half dying.

In her mind, his face still held that ghostly pallor, but this face was tanned, as if he spent a few days under the heavy sun. No black shadows of exhaustion under his eyes, only a warm nuance of sunbath. She fell in love with a pale shadow of a man; she had kissed face carved with lines of pain. Even his eyes were different. Still the same bright blue, but sharp and fierce, unknown. She loved his tired eyes, haunted and warm.

This stranger just watched her, and she couldn't read anything. The thought of saying something only produced a small inward _meep_; her mind was empty, she had nothing to say to him.

She had waited six months for this, and the last-minute panic struck hard. Maybe he only came to tell her in person that he'd moved on. She thought about turning around and running away, but her feet moved in the opposite direction. Whatever the outcome, now was the time to solve everything. She took small, reluctant steps, desperately trying to look casual. Clutching the box didn't help in the slightest.

She stared at him, watching him put away his phone, and straightening. _No restrained movements, no careful breathing_. He turned to her in one swift move, put his hands in his pockets, and tilted his head a little. He filled that jacket. Only now was she aware that all of his strength that she had witnessed had been just a mere shadow of his usual condition. He was running on fumes back then, weakened with a long recovery. Now he'd grown back into his shape – shape she'd never seen before.

How she could be so stupid to think that _this_ man would still want her? No wonder he'd moved on, why he should even consider their short sorta-love-affair, when he could have-

"Stop with that, Flo." That gravelly, deep voice hit her unprepared.

She took a few last reluctant steps and stopped in front of him. "Stop with what?" she whispered.

"Babbling."

She almost smiled, but dread froze her. He was simply watching her, closed off and distant as if ten walls towered between them. His eyes were unreadable to her now. Nothing in them, not a trace of feeling.

She shifted uncomfortably under that gaze. "It was n-nice of you to come here. Thank you. I completely understand if you came here just to clear this, this… whatever this is," she lowered her eyes to his chest. _No bandages under his shirt_. "I also know it wasn't fair to put you in this position unprepared and force you to make this visit – if you'd wanted, you c-could've just called, or sent me an email. Hardison would have easily found my number, it would spare you this troub-"

He reached to her, took her box and put it on the hood of the car. She didn't have time to think what the hell she was supposed to do with her hands now, because she followed the box in an instant. With the same ease. He sat her on the hood and she blinked, stiff and half ready to run away.

He leaned with both of his palms on the hood – their eyes were on the same level now – and he just continued to watch her, with that strange brightness. Yeah, predator, she _knew_ that.

"Why is security on this Convention four times stronger than it should be?"

_That_ was his question, the most important thing _now_? Her mind did a pirouette, twirled and then slammed into the floor. "What damn security? Where did you see any security at all? It's a fan convention." He was evading her question, and her dread grew.

This was a terrible mistake.

"It would be extremely useful if you would be so kind to say something about, well, you being here," she managed to raise her voice above a whisper. "Unless you want me to explain what I meant with, with _that_ in the episode. You are here because of the episode, right? I guess you are." He was so close, finally, and she ached to touch him, pain and need chasing each other into her heart. To be honest, at the same time she wanted to slide back on the hood until she climbed upon the roof; this bright gaze of his, locked on her, was frightening. "Why am I the only one talking?"

Seconds passed while he thought. His eyes drifted from her for a second, and he lowered his head; it was enough for a few whips of hair to fall over his eyes. It was strange. But when he looked at her again through that veil, she saw a flicker of _something_ restrained, buried deep and hidden, breaking through.

"Because I want to hear your voice," he said finally. He flicked the hair back off his face and took a long breath. "Because I thought I would never hear it again. Because I could stay here, and listen to you for hours, and still not believe you are here."

Tears blurred her eyes, and she wiped them away with one hand.

The corner of his mouth drew up in a small, crooked smile. "And I don't know what to do first," he whispered, hesitation drawling his words even more than usual. "So I'm doing nothing. Just watching you – here, within my reach – and trying to, to… not to come apart at the seams."

Oh. It wasn't just her who was frightened, who didn't know what to expect. "So, you are here because you want to… continue?" She had to ask that, and she managed not to squint when he lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Her heart fluttered at that familiar gesture.

"I thought you got my message," he said with a sigh.

"There was a message on that bazooka?"

"No, Flo, the bazooka _was_ a message."

He was the only one who called her Flo. "Do you remember when you called me that the first time?" She smiled, finally, all that dread sliding down her soul, melted with the warmth. "In that sniper attack. One thousand and five hundred bullets flying around us, and I remember only how you held me-" He raised his eyebrows at her. That emptied her mind even more, one more well-known thing that pulled all the strings of her heart. Only way to concentrate was not to watch him, so she lowered her eyes and pinned her gaze on the third button of his shirt. "Yes, okay, the bazooka. The message. I'm on it. What about the baz… oh."

The first day they'd met, she made notes for a bad guy based on him: deadly predator, a perfect match for her seven heroes. And she wrote that he could only be killed with a bazooka – shot twice. Parker stole her notes and told him that; he knew. He came here, and put in her hands the only thing that could kill him; in her hands. The realization filled her eyes with tears again; he was blurred when she raised her head to look at him.

And then he finally smiled, with the smile that once again transformed his face and took her breath away.

She slid closer to him on the hood, and wrapped her arms around his back. His warmth and strength engulfed her when he drew her closer. She held her breath, not wanting to miss anything; his heartbeats, his breathing, the slight tremor in his muscles that squeezed her into his chest. She almost told him then, how she dreamt about the scent of his skin, but she stayed silent, breathing him in. Her fingers traced along his back until she settled in his arms and rested her cheek on his.

And she could stay like this, not moving, forever. She _had_ waited forever for this.

"I don't even need, or want, to kiss you," she murmured. "Not now. This – you, this way, in my arms – is all I need right now."

He said nothing, just held her tighter, and she closed her eyes. The happy grin had returned, somewhere along the way; and tears, too. His heartbeat slowed down and met hers.

His hair tickled her nose when he finally, three and a half eternities later, released his grip and moved her away a little. She let out an unhappy grunt; there was too much air between them now – but he cupped her face with his palms and the world was in order once more.

Now she _could_ read his eyes. Those eyes she knew and loved. Her Eliot was back, and a helpless chuckle grew inside her. "I didn't mean, exactly, what I said about kiss-"

His lips stopped her words with a light touch. "Yeah, I reckoned that," he whispered in a kiss, and that lazy, raspy voice burned through her veins. Hell no, this hug _wasn't_ enough anymore. Her hands moved, drew him closer, and she kissed him with the need of six months longing.

_This_ was something that she never wanted to stop.

And she chuckled again when he finally broke that embrace and stepped back; she _did_ remember those shaken, hungry eyes boring into hers. "So, Mr. Spencer, what are your plans for today?" she asked. Her damn voice was a little shaky too, and more than a little breathless.

His hands were back around her waist. He pulled her up from the hood, and for one whole moment he just held her in midair, clearly torn between pulling her to him, and putting her back on the ground. She watched that struggle, fascinated. "Damn," he muttered, and lowered her one step away from him. "Can you leave the Convention? Now? I don't like it, we're sitting ducks here – we have to move."

"Thought I'd never hear that excuse," she grinned, and pushed her box into his hands. "You drive. I made every preparation for this, eventual… for this outcome." She caught his smirk while he got into the driver's seat – oh yes, a paranoid, systematic security expert probably had dozens of ready-to-go plans for _this_.

She watched him for one more moment, finally realizing he was hers. _Hers_. And, that her future just started to unravel in a completely unknown direction.

She couldn't stop smiling. He started the Chrysler and she hurried to the car. This looked like a getaway, and she was quite ready for adventure, but…

"Why the hell do we have baby seats in here, Eliot? Are you trying to tell me something?"

Oh, yes, that smirk was familiar, too.

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	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Okay, here we go. Plot-readers will be satisfied. Angst readers will see glimpses of things to come. Hurt/comfort- readers will have to wait a little more. But, romance-readers are important right now. I need you to tell me – because I read romance only if it's incorporated into plots and other genres – is this romance at all, or I'm missing a point?

And, a guest who mentioned Samsung in his review: please log in, so I can pay my respect :D Good job :D

PS: problem with formatting - I had to put breaks by hand. I hope it'll show normally when published. :/

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The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 2

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James Sterling wasn't happy. And when James Sterling wasn't happy, heavy rain poured from the storm clouds around his head, slicing at the perfect, tight buns of his Interpol Team.

"Can someone please explain to me how the hell you lost one woman under your surveillance, in a convention hall swarming with cameras; with all of you covering every inch of that hall?!"

He was always proud of the power in his voice; he could express biblical rage with only a slight tightening of his vocal cords, letting the air pressure do the yelling without actually yelling.

His seven agents lowered their noses. Only Min-Jung narrowed her eyes.

"Have something to say, agent Min-Jung?"

"Can someone explain to me how the hell she vanished from all the cameras in the hall, while our fearless leader was watching the same live camera feed?"

Her snarkiness, always completely inappropriate, got her onto his team, but this was too much. He waved his hand to the chairs in the small office, turned surveillance room. "Sit. All of you."

He waited until they sat, put his hands on the small of his back, and stared his team down. "You had one mission," he started pleasantly, pouring on plenty milk and honey – _British, thankyouverymuch_ – into his voice. It always scared the hell out of everybody. "One mission only - to keep your eyes on Florence McCoy. Trusting you could do that, I chose to concentrate on our main target. I wasn't watching the live feed for her. I tried to find Eliot Spencer." He took a pause and smiled. "You do remember why we are here, don't you?"

"She is gone, and he wasn't there, surely we just move on another step." Min-Jung softened her voice into something pretty close to obedience, of a subordinate to her superior.

"While you were running to and fro, trying to find her – which is the clear sign he _was_ here – I widened the search. He is too smart to get caught on cameras-"

"You've told us that he was just Nate Ford's muscle."

"_Just_ Nate Ford's muscle, indeed." He rolled the words over his tongue. "Just a 'muscle' in the most dangerous gang of conmen you will ever meet. Do not, ever, underestimate _just a muscle_ in Nate Ford's team. You all read his file, you know who he is. He might not be book-smart, but he is instinctively street smart – which is a serviceable substitute for wit in his line of work. He is impulsive, uncontrolled, and deadly." He rubbed his chin, and finished the move with correcting his tie. "He is also a very capable tactician – I've witnessed that. The moment he feels us on his tail, we've lost him."

Denise, a blond one whose mission was to keep Buck away from Florence and give her space for contact – and who failed in that, as all of them had failed – raised her hand, as if in a classroom. "This escape doesn't mean he knows we're after him?"

"No, he suspects nothing – and that should've told you something very important about him. This is his usual behavior. Try to imagine what he does when he _wants_ to hide." He turned the surveillance monitor to his agents. "We've already established that a boy gave Florence a message, and after that she left. While you searched for her, I went back through the feed, following the boy. He came directly to her, so his meeting with Spencer was outside. No cameras covering that part. He just danced through all the blind spots. Florence left the building through an auxiliary exit. Again, no cameras there, we saw nothing." He pressed a few keys, showing them three pictures of a Chrysler Aspen, entering and leaving the parking lot. "This was the only car in the last hour that first went to the main parking lot, and after that left, only to be caught going in the direction of the back auxiliary path. Timing is right. He spent ten minutes waiting for her, and here, we see the same car leaving, not to return. We can't see inside, Garfield sun-shades are blocking the view, but she was definitely in that car."

He turned the monitor back into its position, and continued, "He just walked through all our security measures, picked up his target, and left; without even knowing we were here."

For the first time, Min-Jung's voice held traces of worry. "This recording is too pixelated, we can't see the license plate."

"We don't have to. You said she took her gift box. The tablet with its tracking device will tell us exactly where they are. We will move shortly. As soon as I've seen their final destination, I'm arranging a joint State Police and Interpol action." He nodded to his team. "Three of you will start calling all car rental companies, and check all Chrysler Aspens rented in the last few hours. Start with the Logan Airport. Remaining members of the Leverage team are nowhere near Massachusetts; they always put a significant distance between their bases. The episode aired last night – he flew to Boston. Check all IDs, make me a list. We'll have his credit card, the one he probably doesn't suspect being compromised, so he will use it again."

"And what if he noticed any of that?"

"It won't help him." He let out a small smirk. "Even Nate Ford, in our everlasting game of chess, was only able to get a pat position from me, never winning. This time, for the first time, James Sterling is after Eliot Spencer. Not after Leverage team – only him. What chance do you think he has?"

He glanced at the car on the monitor. "The race is on."

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"Okay, now repeat what I've just said," Eliot said to the back seat.

Only a grumble and a sigh came from behind him. Eliot managed to stop his gaze drifting to the rearview mirror, again, to check on her. He had driven for only fifteen minutes, and not seeing her had already become a struggle. Boston traffic, so late in the afternoon, was a liquid stream of light, and he had to pay all his attention to the road before him. She hadn't noticed that he almost bumped twice into cars in front of him, simply because she caught his eye in the mirror and held it. _Damn enchanter and that spark in her eye_.

"When entering a café, first go to the rest rooms and check all doors," she sang behind him. "Check every window, open it, peek outside and calculate the escape routes, then close it. Choose a table in a reasonable proximity to the back entrances, and sit with your back against the wall."

"I never said 'reasonable proximity'. You're making things up. I said fifteen to forty feet. Besides, you're skipping things."

"Which part? About scanning the guests and checking their eye line; or the part about 'five ways to notice a suspect in one easy step'? You have a very weird sense of a romantic first date, Eliot Spencer."

He risked a crash and looked at her. He saw only one laughing brown eye behind his headrest, and he cursed, for the fifth time, his clever idea of putting the baby seat on the front seat. Yeah, every police control would skip past him and concentrate on another car in the row, but the price he paid was unbearable.

"This isn't a romantic first date, yet," he said. "This is just preparation for it."

"A drill, not preparation. You're very lucky it's me here, and not some random chick that would already be running off, screaming. Besides, I know all those things. I'm a crime action writer who can't allow her heroes to make amateur mistakes. Do you know how many café-scanning scenes, with correct behavior I've already written in my series? There are seven of them, at least three of which enter cafes in each episode."

"Yeah. Right. About that…" He hid his grin and intentionally trailed off.

A yelp came from behind. "What are you trying to say? You saw mistakes when we watched my episodes, and you didn't tell me?"

"Let's just say… ninety-nine percent of your audience wouldn't notice anything, and they are all in awe. The remaining one percent thinks you're a very talented amateur, and on the right track to becoming even better. Good enough?"

"Of course not. For your information, I took lessons from my counselor on the show; he is a former CIA operative, and he checks for consistency." She lowered her voice. "Private lessons. I know your world better now, I lived in it for a few days, and knowing more about it would help in making this work."

He wasn't sure whether he should melt right there, and then, into a puddle, or close his eyes in terror and slam them both into the rear of the bus in front of him. _Former CIA operative, for god's sake_. No sane former CIA operative would ever mention the CIA, much less put it on his business card. "That's… very thoughtful of you. I'd like to meet him one day, he seems very interesting." But only to scare the hell outta him, off her show forever.

A rumble and rustle came from the back. "What are you doing?" he said. "Don't touch those bags back there."

"I'm working on my 'reasonable proximity' problem. Keep your eyes on the road, and don't be upset if-" His eyes darted across the mirror; her feet were now on his head rest. "-if you hear, this." With a loud crack his head rest gave way, and a metal part of the construction missed his ear by an inch.

"There. Much better." Two small arms wrapped around his neck, and she put her chin on his shoulder. "This is almost bearable now." Her whisper caressed his neck and cheek, and he held his breath. And inward curses. For almost five seconds, the bus in front of them was in _unreasonable_ proximity, before he remembered to lift his foot off the gas pedal. This sort of distraction no sane hitter would ever allow himself.

He was far away from being sane right now.

"Your hair is prickly now." She snuggled closer and her low whisper hit every frequency in his body. Only one good thing; her hands moved from his chest, and went through his hair. He concentrated on the road, and not on the scent of her hair and skin that had been embroidered on his mind for ages. "How long did you say we'll drive for?" she asked when her hands snaked over his shoulders again.

He almost laughed at her trail of thoughts. "Long enough to leave Boston behind. Look around us; we're already in residential hills. We will head north soon."

She spared a glance towards the trees and gardens they drove through. "The last time I looked out, we were in Down Town."

"And now, if you want me to drive, keep your hands off me for five minutes, will ya?"

"Nope. You're versatile, you'll manage." She followed the statement by dropping light kisses on his neck, and he seriously considered putting her behind the wheel.

He _did_ try to drive as if nothing was happening, as if the woman he thought he had lost wasn't so close, and yet so far from his reach.

Her giggle was throaty and evil; she knew exactly what effect she had on him.

He gripped the wheel tighter and stared in front. "I don't remember you being this evil." His words were gritted.

"I deceived ya'll," she breathed in his ear, and an electric current whipped through him.

Nineteen seconds. He lost it after nineteen damn seconds, and barely stopped his arms from just grabbing her and pulling her over his seat, all while he continued to drive. Instead of that, he pulled over at the first bus stop he saw. No street cameras here; only on private houses, covering mainly their driveways and front yards.

"What are you do-" He opened her door and pulled her out, and she slid into his arms with a happy grin. "I thought you'd never stop."

"Minute and a half," he whispered before he kissed her, and a question forming in her eyes melted away.

He was wrong thinking this would feed the hunger burning inside him. Kissing her was trouble – not the kissing part in it, but _her_. With any other woman he could keep a part of his mind alert to their surroundings. With her, the only thing he fought was a complete blackout. Somehow, he managed to keep track of time, and to break the kiss after only a minute.

"-until what?" she breathed when she finally caught her breath.

"Until the pair we drove by rounds the corner and notices, and remembers, a pair kissing at the bus stop." He left her by the door and opened the passenger door. He took out the child seat and threw it in the back. "Get in there, we're leaving."

She didn't move for a few seconds, watching around the street in the afternoon dusk. Streetlights weren't yet turned on, so even if the pair saw them, they wouldn't be able to decipher their faces or license plate. "First child seats, now you brought me to the suburbs, among lawns and picket fences… why are we here, Eliot? You've lost almost half an hour cruising all over Boston, instead of heading directly to the freeway."

Because he hadn't liked the heavy surveillance at her convention; there were far too many policewomen. Because something felt odd, and he couldn't decipher whether it was a real gut feeling, or her presence that forced him into overanalyzing everything. "Your CIA councilor told you nothing about that lesson?" he asked lightly.

"I sense hostility toward my associates."

He sat back in the car. "Coming or not?"

"Yeah, coming." He did remember her voice colored with this tone, a clear sign of many rapid thoughts.

He started the engine and drove off, as the pair took their first few steps in their direction.

This was better. She was within arm's reach, close by, and constantly in his peripheral vision; he didn't even have to turn to her to watch her. He felt her gaze on him, though she was silent.

"What?" he asked after a minute.

"Since we drove away from the Convention, we've avoided quite a few very important questions," she turned towards him, sans smile. "I know this is just a visit, not your return to Boston… I have to know how long can you stay."

Ah damn. He could continue avoiding it, but there was no point in that. "Two days," he said shortly. "I have to go to Washington, and meet Parker and Hardison; we have a very important job there." He spared a glance to her; she'd shrunk in her seat. "This is just… I don't know, preparation for, for… something more. There's a way to make this work – it will be complicated in the beginning, but easier as we go along." He stopped talking, but she didn't fill the silence. "Two days are much more than I hoped for, Flo. Ever. So just… please take it. For now."

She stretched her seat belt, leaned across to him and kissed him. "Time to initiate the Delta Quadrant Operation."

"What? Did you just geek out on me in the middle of a kiss? I positively don't want Hardison's voice in my head while I'm kissing you."

"Shhh," she pulled out her phone and typed on it. The smile was back. Though, when he looked closer, it wasn't an utterly happy smile. Utterly happy smiles were the only sort he wanted to see on her face from now on. "I just sent Cora a message," she continued. "I've arranged with her to take Orion back to her place, in case of, well, this."

So, six people knew about this: six too many. "Does she know it's me?"

"No, I'm not stupid, I knew you wouldn't approve of that. Just a random guy."

"Why Delta Quadrant?"

"What is the last thing someone who knows you would connect with Eliot Spencer?"

"True. That's your phone, right? While I'm driving, call ten Boston hotels and book rooms for tonight. Give your usual credit card number and your real name."

"Oh, sneaky, I like it. Though, you're paranoid, nobody could've possibly guessed you're here. I'm sure you haven't left any traces behind you."

"Paranoid? You haven't seen paranoid yet. These are just daily precautions, nothing special. Which reminds me, I also have one operation to initiate. One of many."

"How many operations will you make over these two days?"

"I'm very thorough when I'm motivated," he took out his phone and pressed speed dial. "Keep your voice down, I'm calling Hardison."

Her eyes, he noticed, still swarmed with questions behind the smile.

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Bridgeport Brew Pub was heading towards its first major crisis, and Nate wasn't sure what to do about it.

"I don't even know the name of that vegetable, much less where to find it now!" Hardison muttered going out to the kitchen, leaving him with Sophie and Parker who were suspiciously neutral on the matter. "Damn him, and his thematic menu days!"

It started half an hour ago, when their panicked chef, Becker, came to tell them that he had to change tomorrow's menu because he'd ran out of - _insert random, exotic-sounding word here_ – and when Hardison tried to step up and help them decide about the substitute. A heated discussion ended with Becker throwing his towel – literary – on the floor, and with the door slamming.

Hardison told the kitchen staff to cook something, anything, and change the menu as they wished, causing complete consternation.

"I think Eliot overdid their training," Sophie said. "His obsession with that menu caused all this – they are terrified at the mere thought of dishes that are not in sync with…whatever."

"This was supposed to be a job briefing. We've been trying for the entire day to start this briefing," Nate said. "It's Monday, Sophie, they are leaving for Washington Wednesday morning, and we still haven't-"

"Yeah, fries, whatever you want," Hardison stomped back into the office. "They can't remember what it's called, either. They only know it looks gross." The hacker stormed into the back room, probably to find Eliot's notes about menus.

"Hardison, leave it; we have Castleman Security to discuss. The pub won't go out of business if people eat steaks on exotic shit day."

"Yeah, you're right." Hardison returned and slumped in the chair at the table they all sat at. "It's all his fault – first ten days in Afghanistan, without leaving notes for stock and ordering, and today directly to Boston, for two more days. After that, Washington. You two are in trouble, ya know that? You'll be more occupied with the pub than with your part of the job, mark my words."

Nate said nothing, just smirked. For the entire day, Hardison was restless, jumping from computer to computer, doing nothing useful – and not taking his eyes off his phone. This kitchen trouble was just the crown of a long day. He knew what bothered him most.

And, judging by Sophie's loitering here, when they really didn't have anything concrete to do, and Parker's bored sighing – sitting here nevertheless – they all wanted to be here, in case of any news.

He dearly hoped Eliot would never find out that the three of them fidgeted about his love life, like parents waiting for prom night to finish.

Who could blame them? Six months of silent drama, an absent elephant in the room, absence that only Hardison dared to comment upon – once a month and very carefully – hung over their heads just because it was _silent_. There was no change in Eliot's behavior, work ethic, mood, nothing obvious to see or feel, and still they all knew how deeply – and invisibly – shaken he was.

Hardison's phone rang, and the hacker jumped up as if that was something that happened once a year.

"Yeah, Eliot?"

Sophie waved her hands frantically, and Hardison glared at her. "Wait just a sec, will ya?" _What?_ He mouthed silently.

Nate sighed. "She wants you to put him on speakerphone." He turned his chair a little so he could see them all in one line, and prepare for the show.

"I'm here, speak. Is, erm, everything alright there? You're in Boston?"

"Are you busy with something right now?" Eliot's voice, with the car engine in the background, roared into the office.

He didn't answer his question. All three of them turned to Sophie, who listened to the hitter's voice with her head slightly tilted. And when a dazzling smile spread across her lips, even Nate let out a breath he didn't recall he'd been holding.

"No, I'm fine, nothing to do." Hardison grinned and checked his watch. Nate checked too… evening was closing in. "What do you need and when?"

"I have a big money transaction, and I need to cover that up and thoroughly double checked – I'll send you all the details so you can see what it's all about – and I need a good background ID; Untraceable and rock solid. Can you do that in an hour?"

"I'll combine a few IDs I have half ready, and make something; no worries, just send everything. And, Eliot… what's the name of that vegetable that's the base for tomorrow's menu? Can't remember right now. It's Monday now, in case you don't know."

"Oca. Why? Hardison, if you messed up my menu, I swear I'll-"

"-send me all that data, no time for talking now, if you want it ASAP."

A low grumble sounded annoyed, now even Nate heard it, which signaled it wasn't a _real_ grumble. "Okay, gotta go now."

Sophie was still smiling when Hardison cut the call, and that was enough. The grifter could read each and every nuance in their voices, and her smiling eyes showed them all that everything there in Boston was going as it was supposed to go.

Hardison's phone pinged again, five times in a row, and he said nothing, switching from his phone to the computer in turn.

"What did he send?" Parker asked.

"Not gonna tell – privacy. He's bought something, that's all." Whatever Eliot asked him to do, it put a permanent grin on Hardison's face.

Nate was pretty sure there'd be no Castelman talk today.

Sophie got up and picked up her purse. "I'll go and settle things with Becker. We need a chef. And if you manage to find that… oca… on time, maybe tomorrow's menu won't be ruined."

"Googling it as we speak… look at _that_." Hardison pulled a picture on all six screens, and even Parker twitched and withdrew in her chair. That vegetable looked like the mutant child of a giant worm and a fresh brain. "Put two eyes on it, and you have nightmare material." Hardison quickly turned in off, and for the moment stayed immobile. "Nate… I was thinking…" he started, slowly, and tapped his fingers on the keyboards around him. "I'll be pretty busy with all this, and tomorrow will be a tense day, even if Sophie talks Becker out of quitting. Not to mention I'll probably have to go all around to find that oca thing."

"Your point?"

"Can we postpone Washington for two days? Friday, instead of Wednesday? I want to be sure I have two quiet days to work on Castelman, and that's the only way. You can't press things like that."

Parker quickly nodded. Sophie's smile grew even wider.

Nate rubbed the back of his neck. "And poor Eliot will have to spend four days in Boston, instead of two?" he asked softly.

"Ah, now when you mention that, well, yes. I didn't think of that at all."

"Of course you didn't. We're talking about the orphanage here, people, we're already late because of Afghanistan."

Sophie waved her eyelashes at him.

Nate turned to Parker. "Diamonds?" he asked. Parker crossed her arms.

Damn. All three of them watched him, waiting. "Okay, I'll think about-"

"Great!" Hardison grabbed his phone. "I'll send him a message so he can plan everything on time."

"-that." Nate finished.

Sophie's soft chuckle was warm, at least. "Dinner when I get back?"

"Yeah, sure, I'll be here." He sighed again. "Watching Parker watching Hardison doing _something_."

And only when he poured himself a shot of Jack and finally relaxed, did he become aware of one thing.

_Damn_. He had been nervous, too.

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"They've left Boston, agent Sterling, we should move."

Sterling watched the blinking green light moving slowly over the road map, on MA – 2E highway. Spencer turned his back to the sea and Boston, heading deeper into country.

Just five minutes ago, Florence McCoy's credit card alert pinged ten times. Classic 'diverting of the enemy on your tail'. Spencer was dispersing their resources.

"No, we have to check all those apartments first," he said. "They are so clearly a decoy that it's quite possible that one of them isn't."

"What about this?" Denise pointed at the screen and the green dot. "Her tablet is moving, and we know exactly where they are."

"I would, also, send all electronic devices in a bag on the bus somewhere, perhaps to Canada. Spencer is cunning." He went closer to the screen and followed the dot's path. "One more thing… Denise, while the others check hotels, you'll go step by step through the last part, before they left Boston. He made an unusual circle, passing slowly through many residential suburbs. Nice neighborhood for renting a small house with garden among the trees, with the next house at least a hundred meters away. Peace and silence. Don't forget, all of you, he needs a safe place. He'll stop soon, if he hasn't already. It's time to start arranging things."

He was dialing as he spoke, fighting his way through: _for something you don't need, press one, for another useless thing, press two_… It took more than fifteen minutes of pressing stupid numbers, going back and forth, until he reached the live operator. No wonder that US had an enormous problem with crime, when an Interpol agent couldn't reach the person in charge directly. He had to admit, the specifics of his demand might have complicated the things a little. Another six minutes while he was bounced around again from one man to another, until someone with authority finally answered the call.

"This is James Sterling, from Interpol. I have a team in Boston, on stand-by. We're after one highly dangerous suspect from the FBI most wanted list. We are tracking him as we speak. He is armed, with a suspected hostage, and we shall probably need a joint Interpol – Massachusetts State Police action during the night. Whom am I speaking with?"

"Captain Detective Patrick Bonnano."

"Nice to meet you, Captain Detective Bonnano. Time is ticking. I've left my credentials and authorization of this action with your people, the ones who directed me to you, they are checking them as we speak. We shall soon know the exact place where the suspect has stopped. I know the joint action will take several hours to organize, so I'm planning ahead. Do you agree that we meet ASAP? I can join you in your HQ in a less than-"

"Excuse me, agent Sterling," Denise called. "This is important."

"Hold on just a second, we have new info coming in…" he said in the phone and turned to the screen Denise was pointing at. "What?"

"He changed his course. Or, better to say, the tracker changed course. He left MA – 2E near Gardner, and took NH – 12S to the north."

"Meaning?"

"Until now, he drove parallel to the State Line. Massachusetts – New Hampshire state line, sir. Now, he is heading directly to New Hampshire, and if he doesn't stop in the next fifteen or so minutes, he'll leave Massachusetts."

"And Massachusetts State Police doesn't have jurisdiction there, we'll have to contact New Hampshire. I see." He stopped the curse and brought the phone back to his ear. "You heard that, Captain Detective Bonnano? There is still a possibility the suspect is here in Boston, and we are checking everything as we speak."

"No problem," Bonnano said. "The moment you're sure of his location, and if he is still in Massachusetts, we can start the operation. Just keep in mind that it takes time."

"I'll give you a call as soon as we have everything confirmed. Thank you."

He cut the call and glared at the green dot.

Well, he hadn't expected this to be easy.

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"What's oca?" Florence asked when Eliot cut the call. It was thrilling to hear Hardison's voice again; she missed all of them. And they were probably all there, and she had a chance to speak with them, finally, after so many months. The chance went away in a blink of the eye.

Eliot drove in silence, thinking, and then typed on the phone again. She was right; he was versatile. His control of the car was perfect though he sent and received messages, so an occasional kiss from time to time wouldn't have been a problem. Yet, his quick smile stopped her from broaching that subject. "What?"

"It seems we won't have two days. Hardison just sent a message – he needs more time for preparations for Washington job. We have four days."

"Oh. Am I the only one who thinks that a man who pushed the entire world into riot for my show in only a few days, and who hacked the live broadcasting of the People Voice Award ceremony in a few short hours, might have some hidden agenda behind that decision?"

"You don't write those long sentences in your scripts, right?"

"Are you thinking that will divert me from my question, or you're trying to hide from me that you know why Hardison did it, but you're too macho to admit you're grateful, so you'll just grumble?" She managed to say that without drawing breath, and darted him a victorious glare. "I can produce much longer ones, be warned."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Don't ever mix babbling with eloquence, Eliot Spencer. That's a deadly mistake in my case."

He grinned at her. "Yes, Ma'am."

God, how she missed that half evil, half boyish smile. She crossed her arms to stop herself from tickling him. And that hair was irresistible, too. Just an inch or more, and it would start to curl again. Her heart fluttered when she realized that she would be there to see it.

The steady roar of the engine lulled her, and evening setting in darkened his face in shadows. She curled in the seat, half turned to him so she could watch the street lights flashing over his face. That rhythm was also hypnotic.

But he wasn't smiling when he wasn't looking at her. When he watched the road, his face was tensed and sharp.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked when he pressed the gas pedal, and the Chrysler slid over the highway. "Why did I have to keep silent while you spoke with Hardison? You called him from your old phone, so you know it isn't bugged or something. The line was secure. I wanted to talk to him…to them."

He winced; there was an earnest surprise in his eyes. "Old habits, I guess. I'm trying to keep you as safe as possible; as distant from our lives and jobs as I can. It's… complicated."

His hands held the wheel tighter, and Chrysler sped up. She glanced over his jacket and shirt, noticing the stiffening of his composure, and waited.

"When you went away, Nate explained to you all the risks of being too close to us," he continued after a few moments. "Do you remember what he had told you?"

"In short, that I can be used against you, and in danger."

"And you were just a client then," he glanced at her, a millisecond flash of his eyes. "This is something different. I bring danger after me, Flo; my world is always only one step behind my back. There are days when it's closing in to the point of touch. The last thing I want… No, wrong. The _only_ thing I can't let happen is let it touch you." He reached with his hand and she entwined her fingers with his. That brought his smile back, but not into his eyes. They were deadly serious when he continued, "And I want you to promise me one thing."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"I want you to tell me immediately if this is too much for you." His voice went into the colorless mode, reserved. "I wasn't kidding when I talked about security measures. Every time we see each other, it will be complicated, maddening and demanding. I wouldn't blame you if you decide that it's too much for you." And yet, while he was saying that, his fingers squeezed hers, unknowingly. _Eliot Spencer, you aren't half as good at hiding as you think_.

"Complicated, maddening and demanding?" she slowly repeated, then smiled as wide as she could. "Oh, you're talking about sex? Okay, no problem, I'll take advanced yoga classes."

His laugh filled the car and her heart equally; she'd heard that sound only once before, and didn't know how much she missed it until now.

"That's better," she purred. "I do like you in hitter mode, but I really plan to do something with that tension in your shoulders when we arrive. Which reminds me… are we there yet?"

"I'm driving under the speed limit, it'll take close to two hours. And now, enchanter, let's get back to your promise. I would let you skip that, usually, but not now. It's important."

"Yes, I promise, I'll tell you if this becomes too much for me." Ten completely inappropriate sexual allusions came to her mind in two seconds, but she bit her lip. _Not now_. It _was_ important to him. She almost chuckled when it hit her. "Dear god, Eliot Spencer, you're scared!"

"What? I'm not… I might… I'm just worried."

"If you're worried about me, be sure that being in relationship with a wanted criminal can only help my career, and my reputation. And if you're worried about bad guys, well, I've seen what happens with the bad guys when you're near." She raised her hand with her index finger up when he tried to say something. "No, wait. I'm not taking this lightly, don't growl at me. I'm simply not letting anything spoil this for me – and that includes you. Especially you. So stop with that ominous whining – yes, I know that sounds strange, but you're doing exactly that – and just relax. We'll have enough time to make this work, and make this safe."

He sighed. "Yes, Ma'am." And that smile was back.

Yet, she knew he just let it pass, not to spoil her mood. This tension wasn't as strong as it had been before the PVA ceremony, when he was crawling out of his skin; this one had duller edges, and flowed slower. She could still feel him, after all this time, and yes, this _was_ fear. She hid the smile.

This wasn't the best time to mention that Sterling guy, not now when he was in his stubborn protective mode. It would only add to his fear, pushing him into upper level, into one man barrage fire mode, and all in vain. It was six months ago, and Sterling probably gave up a long time ago. She had four days to show him how much he was overreacting.

They were together, finally. And they were safe.

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"It's confirmed, agent Sterling. Spencer just crossed the state line, he is in New Hampshire now."

Goodbye, Captain Detective Bonnano. Hello, another unknown Captain Detective. Sterling pulled out his phone, and dialed New Hampshire State Police. _For something you don't need, press one, for another useless thing, press two_…

A low snort behind his back was barely audible. It seemed that Denise and other three women at the computers didn't notice it. He turned around, to Min-Jung at the other end of the room, with a phone. She was speaking with Logan airport, so maybe that snort was for her source.

When he met her eyes, she smiled, and he knew it wasn't.

"I'm going to get some coffee," he said. "Min-Jung, would you join me?"

She finished the call and went out in the corridor with him.

He specifically asked for someone Korean for this operation, because of Spencer's wandering through North Korean jails. South Korean was the closest thing he could get.

The fact he had to raise his eyes to look at her face unnerved him immensely, yet he didn't miss to notice that she felt it, and used it. He liked sneaky agents.

"What's your problem, agent Min-Jung?"

"He is just one of many on Interpol's and FBI's wanted list. His record shows no activity for the past few years, as if he retired. Why are we hunting that man, agent Sterling? This is an expensive operation, and he isn't connected with any of our current and ongoing cases. I smell a personal agenda here, and I don't like it."

He turned to the machine. "Coffee or cappuccino? I'm afraid our choices are very limited."

"Coffee."

He placed the cup and pressed a button. "However," he said when machine started gurgling hot liquid, "do you know what's the only way to win in every battle, case, job and situation, agent Min-Jung? You have to have a coffee machine able to produce a coffee-latte-vanilla-mocha cappuccino, with all the varieties you can imagine." He placed a small cup in her hands, and smiled. "In strategy, if your choices are limited like this coffee machine, you'll lose. Please, sit."

She sat on the plastic chair in the corridor while he ordered his drink. "My decision to go after Eliot Spencer wasn't-" A door opening stopped his sentence, and agent Denise joined them with her empty cup. He sighed, watching the two agents who were mostly responsible for Florence's skipping away. "Perfect, agent Denise – join Min-Jung, and I'll try to show you the importance of this action – the same importance you both obviously don't get, judging by your sloppiness."

Denise twitched. "We weren't slop-"

He glanced at her cup – cappuccino – and put another cup in the holder for her. "You took it too lightly." And that was, perhaps, his mistake. He just recently formed this small team, choosing the best female agents, skilled in all sorts of expertize, and those two were the latest addition. New players in an already new team. They weren't tuned in yet.

"You can't take Leverage Consulting and Associates too lightly, it's a deadly mistake. Spencer might have fallen off all radars for the past few years, but he is still breaking the law on a daily basis. You can't justify that with eventual justice brought to someone. They are in the revenge business. They make bad people pay for being bad – and that's not the way the world should work. It's only a matter of time when they'll step over that final border, when they'll go one move too far, and kill someone. Nate Ford and his team are dangerous for the order we protect."

He put the cup in Denise's hands, and softened his smile. It worked; now both of them winced. "I have a long history with them." He softened his voice, too. "I owe them one favor, from our last encounter in Dubai. But, you see, a personal gratitude should not have anything with the business we're all in – preserving the order. I'll express it, if needed, _after_ I'm done with them. Their, let's say, usefulness, is the only thing that's keeping them out of the jail, for now. I never pressed with my full force to take them down, because I can balance on the edge with them. In this team, you will learn that, too."

"You're bargaining with criminals?" Min-Jung asked directly.

"Yes, I am. Every time I look the other way, letting them do something, the world of order benefits from it. My career benefits from it, and it gives me more power and more resources to fight real crimes, not their sort of it."

"So, they are useful," Denise said. "Okay, I get it, nothing new in our world, though it feels more like dirty politics than defending the law. But what changed? You're now openly going after one of them, and that will surely destroy that arrangement."

"You think so? Remember, Leverage is out of jail only because I can ask them to do something, or step into their game and pick my prizes."

"And now you don't know where they are," Min-Jung said. "and they aren't useful anymore if you can't reach them."

"Exactly. Without an occasional prize for me, they are just a bunch of vigilante criminals. I've lost them, and I've been trying to find them for six months. Florence McCoy was my only lead, and that net pinged, finally."

"That still doesn't explain why are you trying to bring Spencer down. Nate Ford won't be happy, and he most certainly won't work with you again."

He didn't respond to Denise's words, just watched them, waiting. Min-Jung was the first to get it, she grinned.

"But Nate Ford will come after his man," Korean said. "You won't have to look for him anymore, he'll come to you."

Denise glanced at her friend. "You mean, Nate Ford will come to get his man, against us. A subtle difference."

"A very angry Nate Ford," Min-Jung said, and they both looked at him, with the same worried question in their eyes.

"Very _grateful_ Nate Ford," he said. He added a sugar to his coffee and stirred the cup. "You're in this team because of your brains and skills, not your looks. Use them. You've known my every step and word from the beginning, you're thoroughly briefed. Tell me why Nate Ford will be grateful."

Min-Jung eyes sparkled with challenge; Denise withdrew into contemplation. The cups were forgotten in their hands.

He could see from their eye movement where in the past events they searched for a clue. This time, Denise was faster, she went deeper.

"Florence will be your ally in this," she said. "When you first talked to her, six months ago, you told her you were searching for Nate Ford because you wanted to warn him about something. That there was something he ought to know. She will confirm your words."

"Not bad. But not enough."

"Do you have something ready to tell him, about some nonexistent conspiracy or danger?"

"Irrelevant for this. If needed, I'll have it."

"Because you _now_ have something," Min-Jung jumped in. "That's why you're involving State Police, you're diverting them in advance. It's not Interpol who is after Eliot Spencer and Leverage; it's the State Police. Interpol, in the guise of an old almost-ally, just stumbled upon an already ongoing chase after Spencer. And when you realized it was Spencer they were after, you did everything to contact Ford, warn him, and be nearby to help Spencer, if needed?"

"Almost correct. But that's just the smaller part of it. Min-Jung, I've told you about the coffee machine. If you don't have at least four strategies set on winning in advance, when you start playing with Ford, you'll end up with your King lowered down."

"What else?"

"There's a bounty on Spencer's head. Myanmar offers half a million dollars for him, preferably alive. And we are in charge of this operation, officially – that means _we_ earned Interpol that money. He is, also, a very skilled operative who can be blackmailed to do something complicated for us first. If he lives through his capture. For Florence McCoy's reputation and safe being, he would do anything. Which means I will have some nasty job done, with credits going to, guess who, Interpol… and I'll have the entire Leverage team doing it, because he will call them."

"But that's not all," Min-Jung said. He liked the small smile on her face, much more than Denise's slightly narrowed eyes.

"It's not," he said, and returned the smile. "If Spencer got killed, whether in our catching him – I mean, State Police operation gone wrong in spite of all my tries to save him – or at that potential job I send him to do, that means two things. Nate Ford will be robbed of the hitter, and trust me, there isn't as good as him available on the market. The Leverage team would be crippled to the point of inactivity. The perfect opportunity to step in and use them while they're vulnerable. You've never seen Nate Ford and Sophie Devereaux working together – those two are able to pull every damn thing you can imagine. Using their skills would be a real benefit for Interpol, especially in the International Art Crime Department."

"That's one thing," Denise said.

"The second one… I'll stop looking over my shoulder. In that last job in Dubai, I drugged Spencer, and used them all to do something for me. Trust me, State Police, whichever damn State Police, will be extremely useful as protection for when we meet."

"And you have coffee-latte-caramel-mocha-cappuccino aces for poker in your hand, and Nate Ford has two pairs," Min-Jung said. "Every strategy winning. Oh, I like this job!"

"There is one catch, though," Denise said, and for the first time since they started talking, a small smile appeared on her perfect lips. "You are not playing with Nate Ford now, agent Sterling. You are playing with Eliot Spencer. A wild card."

He _definitely_ didn't like that smile.

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Only when the door on her side opened, letting a gush of cooler air into the car, did Florence become aware that they had stopped. She had dozed off when Eliot turned on the heat, when an exhausting day with barely any sleep finally caught up on her.

He had a key in his hand already, so she missed them stopping and his going out, too. Her neck hurt, and her right arm was dead. She suppressed a grumble.

"Chesterfield Inn," he said, opening the back door. "An old farmhouse turned into a small, yet luxury hotel. Rooms, apartments and cottages, and meadow with wildflowers that looks over Connecticut River valley."

She looked around; no meadow in sight, just a small parking lot at the edge of dark bushes. There was something white and wooden in that darkness, but she couldn't see what. She wasn't so fond of nature, especially not in the night, so far away from civilization. She sneaked out of his jacket – with no memory of him putting it on her – and got out of the car, blinking the sleepiness away.

"Late dinner in a half an hour," he said. He put her bag in her hands; his jacket followed, along with another big bag.

Her will for adventure was on its lowest level right now. She shivered in the breeze. "Leave that gift box in the car," she said. "It's heavy, and there's no chocolate in there anymore. Why am I carrying all our bags?"

"Because I missed your whining, too."

Okay, that improved her mood instantly. She rearranged her grip on the huge bundle in her arms. "No, seriously, I can't see where I step, and it's dark-"

"No need for that," he said and picked her up along with all the things.

"Oh," she said. "Practical. I'm carrying the bags, you're carrying me… but who will unlock and open the door?" In fact, opening of the door was the last thing on her mind. Her arms were full of stupid things, instead of being free, so she couldn't wrap them around his neck. And old fears followed her from the past; for one long moment she froze, when he held her tighter, and only then did she remember he could do it now. No wounds, no bandages, she couldn't hurt him.

"This is the thing you told Hardison to buy?" she asked when his feet stomped on the wooden stairs.

"No. This is a mid-step. A buffer."

"You make no sense."

"I rarely do." He unlocked the door with a number twenty-three on it, and _then_ put her on the floor. How, she had no idea. "Wait here." With that, he disappeared in the dark entrance. Security check, she knew that. Did he really expect killers or bounty hunters hidden in the bungalow completely unknown to anybody? There was no way somebody could find out where they were heading, and drive here before them. She sighed into the darkness, feeling stupid. Well, six months ago she was desperate because she was robbed of knowing him better, of finding out all the layers of this complicated, mysterious package. Even then, she knew that paranoia was forty-five percent of it… on good days. He wasn't joking, and maybe it was time for her to take his caution seriously. If she wanted this to work, she would really have to learn a lot, lots more than she already did.

"You're still walking around unarmed?" she asked into the dark opening, then bit her lip. It was an extremely stupid revelation, in case somebody was really there, waiting for him.

"Everything around me is a weapon, Flo." The light followed his words. "Come in."

The huge room was all in blue and white, with blue-green carpet. White windows and glass doors opened to the terrace on both sides. A gas fireplace added a warm glow to the rich texture of wood on the walls and floor. It was a beautiful place to spend four days.

She stood at the door, watching him pulling the light blue curtains on the bigger window. He turned on two small lamps, and turned off the main light, and warm light washed through the room. "There's a big bathroom, left door." He pointed to the doors on the opposite side. "The other is a closet."

"Right now, I'm more interested in that porch," she said. She left the bags on one of the two big chairs by the fireplace, and went to the glass door. "It'll be a nice place for breakfast, if you're right about that meadow."

He said nothing and she looked at him over her shoulder; the tension was back, though he didn't move. She changed her direction mid-step, and went to the fireplace instead of the door, and his relaxing was almost palpable.

He wasn't feeling safe here. The windows were too big, too open, and curtains gave no protection. Their silhouettes could've been seen from all around. He did this for her, willingly lowering his security standards, and a cold feeling sank in her gut. The last thing she wanted was to be a danger for him.

"I knew you probably wouldn't have anything with you," he said before she could think of some neutral question. "You'll find some clothes in that bag. Fancy suits for conventions and interviews are nice, but not comfortable. We'll be tourists for the next few days, so don't be too critical about my choices."

"You were _shopping_?" She managed to keep her face steady, though an inward giggle threatened to break through. He glared at her. "I have to see that." She quickly opened and emptied the bag; jeans, blouses, one light jacket, grey sweatpants with a hoodie, even one flowery dress – everything exactly her size. He had a good eye, and even better memory. "No survival kit inside?"

"Everything else you need we'll buy tonight."

"Tonight?" she glanced at the night outside. She had lost every sense of time – it could be eight p.m., or maybe even ten. Certainly too late for any shopping, especially for clothes.

"I'll explain later." He checked his watch. "I'll go make a circle or two around, to check everything, and make a visit to the kitchen. Dinner should soon be ready. Get yourself comfortable, I'll be back very soon."

This was starting to feel awkward. He must've seen the change in her smile because he made two swift steps to her, and cupped her face.

"Hey," his voice went low and gentle, almost a whisper. "Bear with me just a little longer, will ya? I know I don't have to check everything, but this is too important… I want to make sure everything's fine. Only this night; I promise tomorrow will be different."

And awkwardness was gone with that simple touch. She melted into a stupid, happy smile, and leaned into him. "Go, do your hitter things. But I have to know – do you have any concrete reason to worry someone's after you now, or is this just a precaution?"

"No, nothing solid. But you're here now, with me, and stakes are raised to indescribable level." And instead of a kiss, he just let her go, grabbed his jacket, and went out. Which was, in the long term, very clever, if he really wanted to check anything around the hotel.

She hurried to the bathroom and spent five minutes in the shower, and another two in putting all her new things in the closet. He bought no underwear – that would be slightly too much – and nothing sexy or seducing; unless his idea of sexy wasn't a black and green Monster drink t-shirt. That thinking, as expected, turned her brain into higher gear, and his absence felt like centuries had passed. Did he really have to check everything, even the dinner?

Yes, he had to, she answered her own thoughts. Even she knew that, she used it in the third season, when Vin and Josiah were hiding in a motel with a victim. _No deliveries, ever. Bring your own food. If not possible, check the path from the kitchen through the final delivery, all steps, and all people involved_.

Writing things like that was her job, but now she had to live it. In honor of that thought, she chose sweatpants, t-shirt and hoodie, great for eventual quick retreat, and made a mental note to buy a backpack for those four days.

With that, she had nothing else to do here, besides lying on the bed and trying out numerous seducing poses. That made her giggle; she was pretty sure he would laugh, too. Instead of that, she looked out, in the night. There was a glistening down the hill, so morning promised a beautiful view to the river bathed in sun. Or, better to say, a sleepy fog rising to them; the nights were fresh.

She turned her gaze to the porch and chairs with a table there, all in white wood, and just then she noticed that one of the columns there wasn't white. Eliot was standing by the railing, and watching the night.

This time, watching him didn't bring warmth in her heart. Not because his silent watch scared her, no; she had seen him in murderous rage and in cold burning anger – but because she couldn't tell what he thought standing there, a shadow darker than shadows.

When they talked it was like she had never left, as if they were still preparing for the PVA, watching her many episodes together. But periods of silence reminded her of the time that had passed. What he was really feeling and thinking about this? She couldn't stop her mind swarming with worried questions.

She went out, on the porch that surrounded the small bungalow, and sat in the chair. A hint of music and cheerful voices could be heard from their left; probably the main hotel building.

He turned sideways so he could see both her and the slope of the hill, and his smile for a moment flashed in the night.

"This isn't bothering me," she said. "I know what you have to do and why. I'll even make notes, for your precious one percent of experts. I know how to think your way – in theory – and I lived and even practiced it for a short time. I'm willing to continue that way."

"I hope you won't, ever, have to think the way I think… because if that happens it means I have failed. Besides, you have no idea of how I think, little writer." His drawl went into a teasing. "I don't doubt your ability to connect things, but you lack knowledge to notice important ones."

"Oh, is that so?" She grinned to the darkness, knowing he would feel that smile. "You could have been anywhere at that Convention, and I could have spent half an hour searching for you. But I chose the right place knowing how you thought about surveillance, retreat paths, visibility, everything. You tested me, and I passed."

She felt his eyes on her, and his shadow tilted its head a little. "Flo, I wasn't testing you," he said finally, and now there was definitely a laugh beneath his words. "I expected you to call me, so I could tell you where I was. I wrote my phone number on the bottom of the bazooka. You didn't check it?"

"Of course not," she slouched in her shoulders a little. Then she thought about it. "That means nothing, I found you all by myself."

"Lucky guess?"

Oh, this was too much. "Had enough sand for the last few days, Eliot Spencer?" she asked, pouring a sugar in her voice.

He went very still. "Yeah, Miami beaches are a nuisance; that stuff gets everywhere."

"Nice try. You were in a desert. Probably the Middle East or something."

"If you noticed a slight change in tan, that couldn't tell you _where_ that sun was. You're bluffing."

She got up and leant on the railing beside him – not touching him, leaving him to have the complete control of their surroundings – but close enough to see him better. "If you were on the beach, you would have sunglasses," she continued. "That would leave an area around your eyes lighter than the rest of your face. But, it's the exact opposite; the skin around your eyes is darker than the rest of your face. Your eyes were the only things that weren't covered; you wore something around your mouth and head. Some sort of protection from the sun, or sand. Turban, keffiyeh? And Hardison thought he needed to remind you it's Monday, in case you didn't know. You've crossed many time zones, not only flew in from Miami. And you're dead tired, no matter how hard you try to hide it."

His eyes glittered in the shadows, catching the light from the room; she had seen that look once before – it was pride. She longed to reach out to him, but not now, not here, where his attention had to stay divided between her and everything else. "I won't be a burden," she whispered. "With time, I'll be a help."

His eyes softened. "Not bad," he said finally. "It was a short trip to Afghanistan, there and back again."

"What have you done?"

"Attacked a US Army base, and gave a tank to the Taliban… among other things."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all – but there'll be time for the full story. Not now, maybe..." His gaze fell from her eyes to her lips, and he trailed off. _So much about his attention equally divided_. That one look was enough for heat to sparkle inside her, her body reacted without any input from her brain. He leaned in, closing that one step between them, and she was in his arms in a second. But a gnawing thought lingered in her mind even when he kissed her; he should've continued to observe the night. He couldn't let himself got lost in a kiss – in some other situation that could kill him. A contradictory mess swirled in her head – he _was_ too paranoid, but at the same time, she wanted him to continue with that paranoia, anything that would keep him alive. And now, she was the cause for this slip. _Never again_.

But that thought melted away when his lips and teeth nuzzled along the line of her jaw. Darkness gave enough cover for now, and the chill of the night dissipated around them. The scruff of his three-day beard scratched against her cheek when he raised his head; it left a trail of coldness where his face had been touching hers. She used that break to steady her shattered breath, and to dart a few glances around them. _Just in case_. He didn't look around; his eyes were glued to her face.

"My timing is completely off," he breathed over her lips, and her hands gripped him tighter. "I should've postponed that damn dinner."

She couldn't agree more; food was the last thing on her mind right now. But then she heard it too; a quiet clangs of metal wheels. Well, he did pay _some_ attention. She unclenched her grasp on his shirt.

"And according to the steps, it's Darryl. His shoelaces have metal endings, Warren's don't."

She blinked up at him, not sure if he was pulling her leg or not. She couldn't tell from his tone, but when she met his eyes, they were half laughing.

"Very funny," she muttered, still wrapped in his warmth. She was pretty sure she blushed – she hated when her mind was read with such precision, but after all those days with five mind-reading freaks, she should've gotten used to it by now. "I don't think you're reckless, I just… your damn paranoia is contagious, that's it."

"But of course," he drawled, and pulled her after him to meet the waiter. The boy left their cart on the porch and quickly cleared out. Now when her hands were empty, she _could_ think about the food. Maybe this idea wasn't as bad as she thought. After all, they had enough time for everything else. Four days was like an eternity for them.

She followed him back into the room, into the warm light, and pulled the curtains while he served dinner to the table in front of the fireplace, teasing her about her stern watch over surroundings.

She decided not to tell him that she had checked; Darryl's shoelaces did have the metal balls on the end.

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"We have confirmation, agent Sterling," Denise's cold, perfect features were warmed by a victorious smile when she pushed a piece of paper in front of him. "New Hampshire, the Chesterfield Inn. He booked an apartment for four days, with the credit card used for renting the Chrysler. The tracker in her tablet shows the same location."

He rewarded her with a pair of impressed raised eyebrows. "You heard that, Captain Detective Zarnick?" he said to his phone. This input came in right at the moment his conversation with a very respectful New Hampshire State Police chief – needed only a location. "We are on our way, we'll be there with our tactical vehicle in little more than an hour. I hope that final preparations and adjusting our action won't last more than one additional hour. The sooner we finish this, the better for everybody… especially the hostage. Yes, you're right. He has killed many times – use every means necessary, and prepare your people. See you soon."

He finished the talk when Min-Jung joined them. "I talked with the Chesterfield Inn," she said. "as a concerned friend, worried about them being late, and got confirmation of their arrival. They _are_ there, this is not just another decoy."

And _this_ was how he wanted his team to work. Fast, precise, professional and effective – both of them radiated the glow of a bloodhound on the clear scent. And how then two of them managed to screw up the simplest of all tasks; merely following one celebrity amongst her fans? Interesting question, worthy of pondering upon... but later. He had to start the operation, and though their huge tactical vehicle wasn't restricted with speed limits, there was no time to waste.

He checked his watch. "We're starting in two minutes, pack your things."

"Am I mistaken, or you decided to go with the _hitterless Nate Ford_ plan, instead of catching him alive?" Denise asked. "That Captain Detective will call all of his men in, to hunt him down, and he will use deadly force. Also Florence McCoy isn't a hostage."

"As _you've_ said, agent Denise, he is a wild card. Even if I use him to do some job, I wouldn't be able to control him. Cost-benefit analysis speaks against it. Not worthy of my efforts, and might cause a lot of trouble, which I don't need now. Besides… his worth has lessened now."

"Money on his head? They lowered the price?"

"No, his worth as a hitter. Do you know how I caught Nate Ford? I knew where to wait for him, because he had something he couldn't let go of. He returned for that thing, right into my hands. Spencer didn't have any flaws before now. He travels light. He can leave every place in an instant, never looking back. Up until now that is. Now he has Florence McCoy, and mistakes are inevitable." He took the paper with the credit card number on it, memorized it, and smiled. "Now I know what Eliot Spencer's kryptonite is – and he is going down."

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"So, if something walks like a duck, talks like a duck-"

"Will you eat that last, whatever it is called, with chocolate?"

Eliot slapped quick fingers that sneaked towards his dark chocolate Crème Brûlée.

"Finish yours first," he said, not letting her grin distract him. "So, as I said, if something walks like a duck-"

"It's probably Hardison?"

"-talks like a duck-"

"If something talks like a duck, you have a serious mental problem, because ducks don't talk." She returned to her cake, and that was good, because she didn't see his stern façade almost cracking. He managed to keep his face serious, and then remembered that half-darkness would help. He got up from the table, snatched both their desserts, and went out onto the porch, leaving her in consternated silence, with a fork raised over the empty table.

"Bring the wine," he said over his shoulder.

"You really like to live dangerously." Her low grumble was followed with a clanging of glass, and she sat on the other chair, facing him.

"I really don't remember you being this annoying six months ago."

"I was scared to death." She handed him the bottle and glasses, and watched him pour the wine. Too bad beer wasn't a good choice for this dinner. "That must've triggered your protective instincts," she continued. "Damsel in distress, and blah blah. Good thing you don't have to go into that mode now."

Yeah, right. He handed over her glass, and pushed his dessert towards her. His protective instincts were raging right now, like lunatics shaking the bars of their cell. He decided to say nothing about that, and instead continued, "So, if something walks like a duck-"

She almost choked on her wine, and for the moment it seemed it might spray directly into his face. He began to think he would never finish that sentence.

"Can, can we skip the duck part, and get directly to the point?" she said when her laugh, and wine, finally went their separate ways.

He hadn't remembered her being this beautiful, too. Maybe that was because now she smiled and laughed all the time, and he remembered, back then, mostly her crooked, worried smiles that caused a dimple on her left cheek. Now, she dazzled. Even in the shadows, when only half of her face was lit from the small amount of light that reached through the door, she was golden. He was lost for a few moments when it finally hit him – she was happy. Now. With him.

His chest swelled with emotion that he couldn't allow himself to show – maybe even to feel – and he just sat there staring at her like a complete idiot, wondering how the hell he deserved this to happen. Just the thought that he had a chance to see her happy – with him – was overwhelming.

Their eyes locked for a moment; under the short locks reflecting the light, her brown eyes sparkled like liquid amber. Only when they darkened, and when she looked behind him, checking the darkness, did he become aware that he had drifted away. Which had nothing to do with his attention to their surroundings, set on its highest setting at all times, but she didn't know that.

"That," he pointed with his glass at her, "You, watching around the moment you thought I wasn't paying attention, is the point of my duck example. Immediate reaction to suspicious things. One who hesitates, dies. Okay, mostly gets arrested, but you know what I mean. If something feels wrong, then it usually is wrong. Act at once, think later. Even if you're mistaken, it's better to make a premature moves, than be late with the right reaction."

"Only in possible danger, or all the time?" Her brows furrowed deep in thought, and he regretted the disappearance of her smile.

"In my world, there's no difference between those two things. And that's the point. If you consider everything as a possible danger, you'll survive."

"Gah," she attacked the crème again, and he waited for the rest. "That's part of the 'don't stop, or you'll die' lesson from the last time?" Another serious question. Again, no smile. The disturbing thought that she had just considered his offer to retreat had this felt too much, hit him with surprising strength, and he just nodded.

"Okay, I get it," she vented one long sigh, and he started breathing again when he recognized this tone. She was only concentrating. She did tell him she was willing to learn, after all.

He sipped his wine, trying not to think about the annoying chance that he would fidget about her every tone or thought, praying she wouldn't accept his offer. The problem was, she had to know these things, for her own safety, and even if the price he paid for her life was losing her.

Only one thing she didn't have to know, yet. He would tell her tomorrow, their night was too precious to be spoiled with more talk of security measures. Now, this night, he wanted her smile.

Something was odd. He wouldn't call it wrong, not yet, not until he deciphered whether he was just being too paranoid, or if his worries had a solid base. Maybe it was nothing… strong security covering the Convention could have had numerous reasons not connected with him, or her. Nobody knew he would come for her, except the people he trusted with his life. Damn, even he didn't know for sure, until she'd come out to meet him.

Yet, those hostesses were most definitely policewomen, and that triggered his set of law- avoiding measures, completely different from his bounty hunter – avoiding ones. Every group of people that were after him had their unique way of hunting and chasing, and law people were tricky. They were, also, bound by their own rules, making them too rigid and visible.

This buffer would help, even if he was only being too paranoid, and if nobody was after them. Tomorrow morning they would be safe beyond any doubt.

He watched her attacking the cake with an enthusiasm he'd only seen from Parker, and only sometimes. For someone so petite, she surely had a healthy appetite.

"I also don't remember you eating this much six months ago," he said. But he did remember their every meal, her every word, every smile. She was carved into his mind. And it was so strange to watch, now live, something that was filed under 'memory'.

"It seems you don't remember many things." She was smiling while saying that, but she changed her posture without knowing it; she brought her elbows closer to her body, as if expecting a hit and guarding herself. Just an inch or two, but enough for him.

The protective lunatic within his mind shook the bars with a deafening noise at that revelation of her vulnerability, her fears. He _was_ here, but she still had no idea about his intentions.

He wasn't much for talking and explaining. In situations like this, he acted. He knew how to show her what he wanted from her tonight, and tomorrow, and every damn day for the rest of his life. The only thing he wanted to do now was to pull her up from that chair and carry her inside – sadly, instead of that, he had to come up with some non-disturbing way of telling her that there'd be no intimacy tonight. Not until that buffer was done and completed. It would be too reckless and dangerous in this phase. _That_ will surely help with her insecurities regarding him and his motives.

"I do remember every important thing, Flo," he said. "And I swore not to forget, ever, a few of them." _A few, right_. Every damn minute of those days they'd spent together.

That was enough to return the ease in her posture. She just watched him for a few moments, as if not sure what to say, and that beautiful amber glow returned to her eyes. In the end, she only pushed her fork with the cake towards him. He took it, but quickly leaned back; continuing that move and kissing her was, for the moment, irresistible.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It was troubling not to see her, even during that short time, but it helped with the tingling sensation in his fingers that ached to slide over her skin. He concentrated on listening to the other sounds around them.

"You do know," she said into the silence, "that you've been behaving like a yo-yo all this time?"

He opened his eyes, raising his eyebrows at her. "Define all this time."

"Since we drove away from the Convention. You only have two modes – professional, like you are now, and romantic, with occasional softening."

He seriously considered saying _gah_ himself; that 'romantic mode' sounded so not him. He definitely wasn't – okay, maybe a little – no, he wasn't doing that romantic thing, ever. Not even now. _And what the hell was this all about, if not_… He stopped that thought and sighed.

Her eyes glistened. "Okay, I stand corrected," she said. "Three modes. The third one would be this – attempting to glare at me, failing half way through, and ending with the _what the hell did I get myself into_ question in your eyes." She pushed away her plate and put his in front of her. "Maybe it would be fair if I tell you that you have exactly the same offer you gave to me." There was a slight change in her voice now, teasing was gone. "Tell me if this is too much for you, if you can't do this, for whatever reason. I understand. I surely don't want you to be here because you think you have to, because of… whatever."

"And what might that 'whatever' be?" he asked gently.

She watched the plate, not him, and the fork made sharp stripes in the crème. "If you moved on, and only came to me to write the epilogue on our story. Or if you want to see what you might have missed last time, and how it would be. Or if you feel an obligation of some sort, which wouldn't be strange, knowing your weird sense of fair play and honor. I do remember your messed up explanation about the difference between those two." The fork scraped across the plate and only then did she raise her eyes to him; huge, insecure, and veiled with a nonchalant smile. "As far as I know, you could've been married for months." And the dimple on her left cheek was back.

All those questions, except for maybe the last one, he could tell her in return, just not stating them quite so bluntly. Not because he couldn't formulate this, but because he wasn't able to admit to himself what troubled him.

He leaned closer to the table. It was small, round, and they could kiss without problem just by meeting in the middle. Yet, he stayed in his half. "I did move on," he said quietly. "I had to. And as much as I hated the reason we retreated from Boston, I felt relieved that it happened before you returned from New Zealand."

The caution didn't fade from her eyes, but the nonchalant smile did. He reached with his hand and touched her crooked smile with the tips of his fingers. She didn't lean into that touch, though her smile softened.

"I've slept with a few women," he went on when she said nothing. She was exceptionally good at hiding the wince, probably because she psyched herself out, but he felt every twitch in her muscles on a molecular level. He lowered his hand and took hers. Her fingers were cold.

"Uhm." She blinked. "Good for you? Congratulations?"

"Thank you." He sent her an evil smile, and her hand in his continued to tell him stories, just like her face did. He didn't, really, need to hold it to know her every thought and feeling. This moment of complete concentration, when all his senses were tuned in on her, when everything _was_ about her, brought him back into their last talk, before she had left. When he realized how synchronized they were, all the time. A perfect harmony of mind and heart; where he led, she followed. Where he leaned in to, she was already there waiting. And it was so easy, so natural, so… frightening. "Do you wish to know specific details of those affairs?"

"Uhm, no?" Her eyes darted around, for a moment unable to stay on him.

"It was okay. As it was supposed to be," he said in the moment he felt she would pull her hand back. That stopped her.

"This is going in a strange direction, Eliot," she said. "Can we go back to, to... ducks, and survival things, and paranoia, and-"

"And the only thing I felt afterwards, was emptiness and anger. Anger because it wasn't you."

Her hand felt like a stone for a second.

"And the answer to your question would be: no, darling, I won't think this is too much for me. Ever."

She blinked; a slow motion movement that fascinated him. "If you say _uhm_ just one more time, I'll think about taking drastic measures," he quickly continued when her eyes started filling with tears. Damn, he wanted so badly to squeeze her tight and erase those tears. He forced himself to remain sitting. "In fact, if you say anything at all, I'll clear out. I have already been accused of being _romantic_, which is beyond outrageous,, and this is my absolute limit. No more. Eat that cake."

Ah damn, the combination of that brilliant smile and her teary eyes, and, and… love, melted him right there and then. He couldn't even remember what muscles he should use to formulate a scowl, so he just sighed instead. And smiled back.

"If you love someone, set them free," she whispered. "I did. If they come back, they are yours. If they don't, they never were. You came back."

"You have an exceptional gift for stating the obvious," he grumbled. He let go of her hand, and put the fork back into her fingers, feeling almost uncomfortable under her gaze. The evil spark that ignited in her eyes was a relief, though, infinitely better than those damn tears.

"Oh, there's another version of it," she said. This time, the fork cut the cake in one precise, merciless stroke. "If you love somebody, set them free." She grinned saying that. "If they come back, especially after six months, that means nobody wanted them – so set them free again."

"You little-"

"Watch out!" The fork intercepted his words, and he had to take the crème again.

"If you think that cake will stop m-" Well, the cake didn't stop him, she did. In one second, she was beside him, and before he swallowed the crème, she was in his lap, her arms around his neck.

She tasted like wine, and chocolate; and the shea butter scent from her hair brought him back into the pain and bliss of their first kiss. Just this time, she was _his_. That set a tremble in his fingers; not only kissing her and feeling her in his arms, but the thought she was his, after all his hope had been lost.

She laughed and his pulse picked up at the sound of that silver bell. "Flo, my plans _do_ include making love this night, but not right now-" he managed to say, but she put a finger over his lips.

"Shhh," she said. "I know. I want you so badly, but I want you whole. When your brain will be only with me, and not half of it checking the windows."

And that would never happen. She must've seen that thought in his eyes, because she sighed and nodded. "We'll negotiate it later," she proclaimed. "For now, this is all I need. Just kiss me, and we'll get back to wine and ducks."

He placed one hand on her cheek and traced the shape of her smile with his thumb. His hands weren't entirely steady; the other one was wrapped around her back, pulling her closer until he exchanged his thumb with his lips. She clutched at him and his breath shattered; her shiver set off a frenzy inside him. She met his need with the same desperate one, and her hands left a trail of flames over his body.

This was different from the kisses they shared on their journey; they both felt it with each and every touch. The slow heat engulfed them. There was no rush now – except in his mind – and they settled. They had _time_. The cover of darkness muted everything, divided them from the rest of the hotel, making the sounds as irrelevant as the quiet crickets around them.

He did try to fight his need, but his arms weren't following the orders from his mind; they held her tighter. And when he thought about stopping this, while all security protocols screamed in his head, he only pulled her closer, lost in that kiss.

He knew it would be like this, even before their yearning accumulated to the point of explosion, but this - this was mind shattering. How the hell could just one touch, one kiss, provoke this much heat? He was already burning. He turned her to face him, and when she wrapped her legs around his waist, the kisses became more urgent, deeper, each claiming and demanding.

He cursed the thin fabric that divided him from her skin. This was going bad fast, and she wasn't helping. No, wrong; it would be the same if she only sat there, doing nothing. He could feel _her_ need in her every tremble, and that only fed his desire further.

He didn't check what time it was, and that was important. When he moved his hand to see his watch, that damn hand just disappeared under her shirt. He was pretty sure he wouldn't see it again anytime soon, and he let out a low grumble, half crazy, and half mad.

"Oh. That sound," she whispered. "I want to hear that again." Her hand moved across his chest – his shirt was already unbuttoned and he had no idea when – and her fingers dug into his shoulders. Her eyes, fiery and so dark, bore into his. "I want to _cause_ that sound," she breathed.

Heat whipped through him, and there was no going back. He met her lips with all the hunger burning inside him, all that desperate need. All reasons cleared from his mind, leaving only the thoughts of all the sounds he wanted to hear from her tonight. He got up in one move, with her still pressed to him, so hard they could barely breathe, and carried her inside.

The woman in his arms was the most important thing in the world now. Everything else could wait.

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	3. Chapter 3

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 3

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"Isn't it just a little strange that every now and then, some of us end up searching for random vegetables for him at unearthly hours?" Sophie asked after Nate unlocked the pub and opened the door to let them in. The pub was empty and dark; midnight was closing in. "It was fennel the last time, remember?"

Their dinner had been interrupted with Hardison's call. The hacker had proclaimed he had found one local supplier that might have some oca available, and he had sent them to work on the owner, to make him, somehow, open the store and sell them that damn thing.

The owner's daughter was having a birthday party, one thing led to another, and they ended up with new friends, slightly drunk, and with three precious tubers in the box Nate carried.

He put the box on the bar and went behind it to pour drinks for both of them. Sophie sat on the bar stool and threw her shoes away, wriggling her toes.

"When I think better of it," she continued when he said nothing. "It wasn't a rhetorical question. And there is a deeper meanin' in it." She just slightly slurred her last words, and he eyed her, stopping his hand after he poured only a few drops of white wine into her glass.

He put his elbows on the bar, and took his glass. He was tired, too. "What deeper meaning could you possibly find in the messed up order of a strange vegetable?" he said.

She lowered her head and looked at him through the veil of her hair. "Fate." Her voice sounded deeper than usual, almost strangled. He knew it was because she had sung at the party, but nevertheless, she sounded prophetical.

He opened the box and took one tuber out, waving the gruesome thing before her eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous," she huffed at him. "The first night when Florence jumped into our lives with those mobsters on her tail, Eliot had sent Hardison and Parker to find fennel. And now… the first night she is back in our lives, we were sent on the quest for, for… that thing."

He suppressed laughter when her eyes darted a nasty glare at him. "So, according to that, if in the near future some of us have to buy carrots in the middle of the night, that means they are getting married somewhere?"

_Oh shit, wrong move_. Her eyes flashed with a sudden thought. No matter how he loved _this_ smile, this was very bad time to turn her thoughts in that direction. "Sophie, that was a joke. Stop fidgeting with that phone, please. Midnight in Portland means three a.m. in Boston. Put the phone down."

She placed the phone on the bar and took her glass with both hands. "I was not thinking of calling him! I would never interrupt what little time they have together, after so long waiting."

He sighed, and held her eyes. "No," he said.

"Four days is nothing. It will pass before they know it."

"No."

"Just imagine how useful it would be for us if you were to give him a few more days. No growling, no annoyance, no twitching nerves… When he gets back, he will be content and relaxed. We will all profit from it."

"You're losing your touch, Soph," he said with a sigh. "I thought you are aware of the hell that will unleash upon us when he gets back."

"What do you mean?"

He put the oca tuber back in the box, first. Eyes or no eyes, he felt watched. He had enough trouble with George and his silent watch behind their backs in the office. "If everything goes well, they will continue seeing each other. Not often while she is in Boston, but it will be easier when she is shooting in LA."

"And your problem is?"

"What happens when you mix one paranoid hitter with the most precious thing in the world for him, add a spoonful of enemies, and sprinkle everything with a healthy dash of overprotectiveness?"

"Oh." Sophie stopped her glass half way to her mouth, and put it on the bar. "You get a deranged paranoid freak in berserk mode."

"Exactly. When he gets back, it will be… un-survivable. He'll be constantly freaking out over every damn little thing, every detail, and every step in their seeing each other. And the worst of all, he won't show any of it openly. Just wait. And don't tell me I didn't warn you."

"That only means we should give him a little peace now." She smiled at him and her voice fell to whisper. "And one more thing… no matter how much he freaks out when he gets back, I _want_ to see it. And you want it, too."

"Well." He tilted his head at her. "Interesting it will be, for sure. And now, enough of it. Time to call it a night – because tomorrow we will have more of this vegetable crisis. Three tubers don't make a menu for the entire day, and Hardison will send us hunting again."

She nodded agreement, and picked up her shoes. Yet, if he knew anything about Sophie Devereaux, he knew _this_ smile. This wasn't over.

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In the end, it took a lot more than two hours before Captain Detective Zarnick of the New Hampshire State Police raised his hand.

James Sterling was a very patient man, when he wanted to be, but this night everything conspired to stop him and delay him. Interpol's tactical vehicle was stopped on the highway because of an accident that formed a mile-long line of vehicles gathered on all lanes – even the emergency ones. No way could he use his rotating lights and break through.

He supposed that Zarnick was organizing the action while they waited for the road to clear, but when the Interpol forces arrived, they found only Zarnick with a fistful of men, who were waiting for them to arrive, so _then_ they could start the preparations. And who eyed his agents, and kept asking him if he was British.

He really enjoyed the change in their expressions when he passed out cleaned and censored copies of Spencer's file. The silence in the briefing room was deafening. After all of them read it, all their eyes were on him, not on his agents that stood in line behind him.

"Armed and dangerous," he said. "Able to kill you all, one by one. Any questions?"

There were none.

The Chesterfield Inn was surrounded with all the men Zarnick had and called to arms; New Hampshire's roads were without any supervision this night.

The windows on bungalow 23 were dark, and the white porch was empty. The waiter who had served dinner several hours before confirmed that the guy, he recognized from the picture Sterling showed him, was there, and that he told him not to disturb them until tomorrow.

A Chrysler Aspen waited at the parking lot, and Sterling pulled his agents back, behind it, in complete darkness. Surprising Eliot Spencer in a love nest, in the middle of the night, was one of the things that were marked red on his secret list, and good agents were hard to find and train.

Besides, this was a New Hampshire State Police action; they ought to go first.

He nodded to Zarnick. And Zarnick raised his hand.

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As far as things were going, Eliot was pretty sure he would spend the next four days without a single minute of sleep. Sleeping would be such a waste of time, no matter how much his eyes burned. Sleeping – and even too much blinking – would mean he couldn't watch _this_.

And _that_ was half curled under the blanket. Her face was buried between two pillows, and there was nothing sexy or seducing in her slumber shape. No silky curves in sight, except one naked arm, and a part of her knee. Okay, both were silky, but that was all. Yet, he could not take his eyes off that messy bundle.

He was sitting on his side of the bed in the lotus position, but he rested his elbows on his knees, and his chin on the entwined fingers. Sitting helped keep him awake, and counting the time. The only thing he needed now was to close his eyes and drift away. He was wasted. His mind was tired, drained more than his body.

His mind should've been empty; he was dead tired. Instead of the oblivion he needed, he was caught in a video-tape set on replay. The hours they spent here played slowly before his eyes. No parts would he like to skip, or rewind, or go through on fast-forward. There were only moments he wanted to repeat in slow motion. And repeat in reality, now, this very moment, and to never stop.

He snuck out from her arms the moment she fell asleep. If he had stayed, he knew he would crash too, and the only thing worse than making a mistake, was accumulating the mistakes on top of that first one. His pathetic excuse for the brain had decided he could spend those few hours in bed instead of on the porch – but that was the last thing he would allow it.

Their time was up.

He wanted to spend ten more hours staring at her like this, mesmerized, and without blinking. He even had an excuse for that – the more he let her rest, the faster she would get together and move… but dammit, he simply did not want this to end. He still could not recover from the intensity they had shared. Calling it sex was simply inadequate; too weak.

He checked the time, for the tenth time since he got up. It still had not slowed down, and he knew he had to wake her up.

He untangled from his position, and slowly nudged her knee with his foot. Not romantic at all, but it was the safest way for him.

And of course it didn't work. "Flo, wake up," he said.

Nothing.

_Ah, damn_. He lay back on his half and pulled her to him, nesting her in his arms. "Wake up," he whispered, covering her face and eyes with light kisses, until her eyes fluttered open.

She stretched and hugged him with a sleepy purr, and a soft smile. _Oh shit_. His mind immediately started recalculating the time they had, and needed, searching for – _and finding, dammit_ – a few minutes he could spend here in her arms, but he slapped his mind without mercy, and stopped that. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I had to. Are you with me?"

She let out an unintelligible murmur and burrowed her face in his shirt. He waited. After a second, she raised her head and looked at him, blinking the sleep away. "Shirt. Why are you dressed?"

"Remember the buffer I mentioned before? We have to complete it."

"Ah, so that's how it's known," she said. "I was wondering… okay, get that shirt off and we'll complete-"

He stopped a chuckle, along with her fingers that went for his buttons. "No, wait, I'm not talking about…that. That will wait a little longer. In short, you have to get dressed, we're leaving."

She watched him for a few moments. "Nope," she said and wriggled out of his arms, burying her head between the pillows again. "…insane." Was the last muttered word he heard before he laughed.

She raised her hand sideways, with her index finger up in warning.

"I guess it's not the best time for asking you, do you know how to ride a bicycle?" he said. "Because that's what's waiting for you in the next couple of minutes."

Her finger froze in consternation, but when she raised her head, no trace of sleep was in her eyes, only confused anger. And that was sexy as hell. He swallowed, hard, and barely stopped himself from pulling her back to him – merely because he knew that her every-expression, from now on, would fall under that same category for him.

"It's about five miles drive," he continued while she still searched for words – and knowing she was a writer, that said a lot. "It shouldn't take us more than half an hour. Don't argue, the hotel has bikes for country tours. They have horses, too, so be glad I didn't choose them. And after a refreshing ride… shopping."

The first sound she made was a combination of a meep and a growl, and yep, he was right; even that was sexy. Though, he sensed a stirring within his self-preservation instincts, and quickly put his best gentle smile on.

"What time is it?" she said.

"Two a.m."

She took one long, long breath, and he quickly moved, grabbing her around her waist along with the blanket. He picked her up from the bed. "Two a.m., not even morning, and you wake me up after, after... everything we have done-" Being carried didn't stop her. "And you want to put me on the bike! Are you insane?! What damn shopping? Eliot Spencer, you are treading very-" He opened the bathroom door with his foot, and put her on the floor.

He could not stop his grin while he watched her standing there, pissed off, with messy curls, clutching the blanket that barely covered anything; she radiated the most adorable annoyance that he had ever seen.

She must have seen deeper than his grin, because she sighed, and let a twitch of a smile escape. "You're damn lucky you're so, so…" She shook her head. "You're not kidding, right?"

"Nope. You have five minutes to get ready, starting now." He risked coming closer and putting his arms around her; she relaxed into his touch and rubbed her eyes.

"I'm tired," she whispered.

"This is the last thing, I promise. You'll be back in bed in an hour."

"Is something happening? Any reason for this?"

"Nope. Just another of my usual precautions. One of the last ones in evading a possible tail. Accent on possible."

"Okay then," she sighed and kissed him. "I'll be ready. Go now."

He forced himself to let her go, and went out, waiting in front of the door until he heard the sound of the shower running.

After that he collected her clothes, scattered all around, and brought them to the bathroom.

Scanning the room took only a moment. The clothes he'd brought were in the closet, with her Convention suit and blouse. Sweatpants and hoodie would be great for riding, and if she got cold, his jacket would do. They needed nothing else. He took her wallet from her handbag, but left the keys and the phone beside it, along with his car keys. The remains of their dinner were still on the table near the fireplace, and the dessert and wine were deserted on the porch. He had told Darryl not to disturb them until noon tomorrow, and the scene would stay just as it was.

Perfect.

Yet, when he went out on the porch, and when a chilled gush of a wind whipped him, he hesitated. Bikes would be the best choice, yet they were not the only one. Did he really have to push things that far, putting her on the bike in the middle of the night? She had told him, in short, about her night, and how exhausting her day had been. She would be dead tired.

He grumbled over the pros and cons for a minute more, then sighed and went to the reception room. Nothing had happened up to now, and maybe it was time to cut her a little slack.

Instead of renting two bikes, he would call a taxi, just as useful as the bikes; in fact maybe even better.

One taxi-driver had not long arrived with new guests, so he caught up to him immediately. He brought news of a nasty accident on Franklin Pierce Highway. The traffic was stopped, and in the distance, many blue and red rotating lights colored the night.

Florence came out right on time, and after a further minute they left the Inn, and the lights, behind them.

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"All clear!"

"All clear!"

James Sterling didn't need the second confirmation to know they missed him. The apartment was empty. He eyed the darkness around him, and waved to his agents to gather under the streetlight on the parking lot.

"Stay there, and stay together," he said, and went to Zarnick. Min-Jung and Denise followed him as if he'd said nothing.

"Pull out your men, Captain," he said when he climbed to the porch. "I have to see the apartment."

Before he entered, he studied the small round table on the porch. Two plates were lined on one side, but two glasses were on opposite ones. One of them didn't have any appetite.

When he entered the room, he needed just one glance to see their actions weren't completely wasted. "Clear the room, Zarnick, now. Everybody out, retreat to vehicles."

"You think he is still here, somewhere?"

"No. Even better. This isn't a room somebody left in a hurry, running away." He opened the closet, checked the clothes inside then pointed to the table, with a handbag and keys on it. "They had dinner, had sex, and then went out. They'll be back. Pull your men back, and set up watch on the surrounding areas." He turned to Min-Jung. "Did they take the tablet with them? That might tell us the exact location."

"No, they've left it in the car."

"So, they are not far away," Zarnick said. "He might've seen us."

"You did everything by the book, Zarnick. Quick, silent, effective. Your men on watch would notice him, if he were around. If he was alone, they wouldn't – but there's a woman with him. They would be noticed."

"I'll clear the perimeter and set a trap. We'll be ready when he gets back."

"Good thinking."

The policemen left the room, and Min-Jung and Denise went out on the porch, but he lingered for a few moments more. For anybody else, he would start searching for whatever place they were in right now. With Spencer, elusive as a fistful of water, that would prove useless. Their only chance was to catch him unprepared when he gets back here, directly into the trap ready to close around him. If their luck held, he would be tired and distracted with that woman.

However, there _was_ a possibility that Spencer had seen them coming, and that the hitter was now in hunting mode, somewhere around them, in the darkness. Very small, but serious enough.

He spent another minute in the apartment, checking the bathroom and smallest details, then left the room. There was no sign of any policeman, the night calmed again, yet he could feel the trap setting up all around.

He waved to his two agents. "To the tactical vehicle. And lock the door."

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The quick shower and fleeing out into the night, to the waiting taxi – thank god on that front – hadn't helped Florence to feel any less disjointed.

She couldn't follow this. She prepared for four days at ease, with a man she loved, and she didn't even get through their first night. Being chased into the night, in a hurry like a fugitive, surely didn't add a romantic glow to all this. And what now? Going to some other hotel room, only to leave it after another few hours, and then return here again?

"It's only ten minute drive," he said when the taxi started, and she snuggled into his hug.

And in that second everything was fine, she anchored herself again. She didn't care where she was, as long as he was there. She inhaled his scent and closed her eyes, and vivid images attacked her at an instant. All her senses were full of him. "Uhm, what?" she said after a minute, and listened to laughter echoing in his chest, under her face.

"Don't fall asleep." He straightened her up and she mumbled in protest, but stopped when she looked at him. His eyes were laughing now, but there was the same intensity in them as it was some time ago. The same hidden feeling she fought so hard to decipher while they made love. His eyes never left her face, not even… She couldn't stop the rush of blood in her face, and for a moment she almost felt his hands on her hips again, and the same hunger for him.

She wasn't the only one who was thinking about the same thing.

He leaned in to kiss her – the same slow, maddening movement that drove her crazy so many times – and after that, she was ready even for that damn bike. Anything that would speed up this shopping insanity and return them to the apartment. He was in her arms, and she still missed him desperately. A sudden panic rushed over her – they had only four days. How on earth could she let him go after that, not knowing when she might see him again? Did he feel the same way at all?

She reached for a whip of his hair, and pulled it across his face, over his nose. She did have to chase a memory of that same hair over her skin, the tickling sensation that made her blush again. "I think I'll get used to it this length," she said. "But no more surprises, please. The next time I see you, I don't want anymore shocks."

"Deal," he said, and she couldn't tell whether he'd noticed her subtle question about his next visit, or had he decided to skip it. _He is a grifter_. He could act like she was the love of his life, he could spill promises and words of love faster than she could write – and she would never be certain of what his true face was. In spite of his words on that porch, he maybe wasn't thinking about the next visit, he only lulled her.

This was just great. In only a minute, she jumped from end to end, from one extreme to another. A wave of self-loathing washed over her when she realized she was acting like a C- production heroine in those cheap romances. _Alas, alas, do I have his eternal love? What stupid, needy problem can I create now_? She mentally slapped herself to get it together. Yes, she was in love, and the intensity of it was scary as hell – but she'd always trusted him. He didn't have a reason to 'grift' her. He was already receiving from her everything she had to give.

"I don't know what you're thinking right now, but I do hope it's only a plot for your next episode," he said, and only then did she become aware that she was staring right at him with his whip wrapped around her finger, not moving, not speaking.

He wasn't watching her, but that hand in front of his eyes. His hair was wrapped around her wedding ring. She let it lose and lowered her hand – that was one explanation that would wait. She needed time to explain why a divorced woman would still wear it, and the back seat of a taxi wasn't the best choice for that talk.

"Ah, sort of." She remembered his words, though it seemed he did forget what he said while watching that piece of gold. _Don't blush_. "Actually, it was about romance. I put that shit in occasionally, every now and then, but now I see a few advantages more."

For the moment she thought he would ask about the ring, and not follow her diversion, but then the smile returned on his face.

"If you blow up your contract with CBS, we won't be able to push you to another network. Even Nate wouldn't be able to think about another set of plots to play. And they would blame me."

"Okay, okay, no romance in M7. I promise. I have a few ideas about the next season, though, and-"

"Wait, we'll have time for that later. While we drive, I have to tell you something about our leaving the apartment."

"You said there was no reason for it, no danger."

"There wasn't. It's not about the situation, but your reactions."

"Another _If a taxi drives like a duck_ lesson?"

"Sort of." He grinned. "It is about immediate reactions, though. There wasn't any hurry, so I let you wake up slowly, yet the next time maybe we won't be that lucky. The next time, when I tell you to get up, you have to do it without thinking."

"And without asking why?" She played with his hair and tickled his nose with the whip, so maybe that was the reason for his smile, and not a memory of their constant arguing six months ago. Asking why was the most normal thing to do, in her opinion. In his, it was driving him nuts.

"You can ask why _while_ doing it without thinking. I can live with that."

"Why?"

He laughed again and pulled her back on his chest. That was definitely the place she wanted to spend her life. "We both agree, that in spite your extreme knowledge on this subject, my experience is maybe, eventually, a little bigger, right?" he asked when she settled there with a contented sigh.

"Okay, if that helps to make you feel better."

"If anything unpredicted happens, I'll need you to do exactly what I say. No thinking, Flo, none of your ideas. If we are in danger, both of our lives will depend on you."

The warmth slowly ebbed away. The reminder of all the dangers in his life was the last thing she needed right now, when she felt so happy. "Why on me?" she said with the same light in her voice, not letting her thoughts out.

"Because you'll be used as a weapon if we are together when, if, an attack happens. So, if I tell you to run, stay, duck, or dance – do it immediately. I know what I'm doing and why. No questions, no thinking."

"That's sort of ironed out a long time ago," she said. "I was in danger with you before, remember? And I came to the same decision on my own: _when with those five, first do what they say, when they say, and then ask questions_."

He said nothing on that, and she moved away a little to see him. "What did I say?" she asked.

He just watched her. "I thought you'd freak out on this," he said finally. He shook his head, and his hand trailed through her hair. "You're reasonable." There was definitely a tone of surprise in his voice.

"No, I'm in love," she whispered. She returned her head onto his chest and his arms wrapped around her again, in silence this time.

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The drive lasted less than ten minutes, and in the beginning it felt like they were going deeper into the countryside. Hills and darkness hovered over them. She didn't really care about where they were heading to, so she closed her eyes again, and opened them only when they arrived. The taxi stopped, and a strange thundering noise came from all around them.

She opened her eyes into the dazzling lights, and a river of people streaming on both sides of the taxi.

Eliot opened the door, and the smells of popcorn, sausages and gunpowder hit her directly in the face. A guitar riff attacked from her left; explosions of firecrackers from her right.

"Welcome to the Brattleboro Free Folk Festival." Eliot held the door for her and she got out, blinking into the lights. "I know it's past two a.m., but nights here, and now, are not for sleeping."

"Then for what?" she asked.

"We have to buy you a toothbrush." He pointed to the street they were in; a long alley alongside the river, with stages, tents, street performers, masses of laughing people. Everything was lit, all stores open.

"I thought you were kidding about that shopping part," she said when he held her hand and pulled her with him into the crowd. She had _hoped_ he was kidding. And more than anything, she hoped he did not plan some sort of party time for her. _No dancing, thank you_. In the first ten steps through the mass of people, he snatched a baseball cap from some guy, and the brim shaded his eyes. That reminded her of his snatching an umbrella and a jacket for her when they had joined protesters in front of Knudsen's mine. One day she would understand that ease with stealing things, but for now, she was just amused. It seemed he didn't even register that he did that.

She glanced at his smile, and adjusted her mind a little. Pretending she was having fun would not be so hard, if he wanted this.

After only ten minutes, she did not have to pretend anymore.

They walked hand in hand, laughed a lot, and bought something on every booth. She drank a hot chocolate that chased the sleep completely away, and remembered to buy a backpack.

Loud music, maybe more than anything else, made her feel invisible; they had to yell when they were near the stages. They mingled through the crowds, visited small markets scattered all around, and she enjoyed seeing him so relaxed, having fun. It felt like they were an ordinary couple.

Until he bought _her_ a cap, too.

They stood in front of one booth and she almost choked on her chocolate when she saw all sorts of weird wool caps they were selling there. Before she turned around to another stand, he chose the most outrageous of all of them, and put that monstrosity on her head. Green and grey elephant head, with big ears flapping on both sides, and a trunk going upright on her forehead. She squealed and tried to take it off, but he quickly tied it under her chin. He laughed so hard that she hadn't had the heart to spoil his joy. Even the woman who sold them laughed, pointing the mirror towards her.

No one would recognize Florence McCoy with her face surrounded by an elephant head. Her short locks were invisible.

That thought reminded her of whom they were. They weren't any ordinary couple, no matter how hard he tried – and succeeded – to fool her.

"My retribution will be cruel," she said when he pulled her again toward some other shiny shop, and she hastened her steps to catch up with him.

But, now she paid attention.

He was neither relaxed, nor feeling invisible in the crowd. He _made_ them both invisible. There weren't many street cameras, or she wasn't looking for them before, but now she watched around noticing them. His mingling wasn't random; he chose the path that kept them out of their reach. When they entered the shops, it was with groups of people. The brim of his cap was always low, always at the right angle to hide the majority of his face from the cameras. He placed a few orders in the stores, to be picked up later, not saying what was in them. He used only cash, no cards.

Somehow, knowing what he was doing only made this more interesting for her. Behind her own good mood, she continued to watch, observe and learn, not letting him see her attention.

They made a full circle, and after another hot chocolate he took her back, picking up his orders. He carried all bags and packages, and she saw a change in his behavior. His hands were busy now, so that meant slower reaction if needed. His pace got faster in return, he chose darker paths, and not even one face that passed by them went un-scanned.

"Hey, slow down, I have short legs!" she said catching up with his long stride.

He stopped and waited for her. No wonder he looked as if he was on the verge of laughing every time he looked at her. The trunk on her forehead bobbed up and down with her every step.

"Can we go back to the apartment now? I'm dead tired, and you bought, probably, everything you need. We can come here again tomorrow."

"We ain't going back to Chesterfield Inn."

"What? But my things… my phone, clothes, keys…"

"It'll wait. We'll pick it up the last day. Or, if you need your phone badly, I'll go and fetch it sooner."

She stopped completely, crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. "Look at me, Eliot Spencer. This is my bitch face. Remember it, and respect it. And start talking before I frown, because that's scary." Damn, she felt her elephant ears slowly waving in the breeze.

His face went through several different expressions before it settled on suppressed laughter.

"I would kiss you now, if maneuvering the brim of my cap around that trunk wasn't so logistically demanding," he said. "So, consider yourself kissed."

"Bitch face, Spencer." She dug her heels in the ground and frowned as if she meant it. "Talk to me."

"Is that scary frown supposed to melt people? That's your super power? 'Cause I've never seen the cutest frown before-"

"Where are we going, when, and why?" She steadied her voice into stern mode. He returned one step, put all the packages in under one arm, and pulled her closer with the other. Her problems with maintaining the frown grew exponentially.

"Where? For a short walk, fifteen minutes tops. When? Now, if you want. And why? Because that's the last step in my usual precautions, and after this, we can relax."

"No more leaving, moving, going all around after this one?"

"Nope." He leaned closer. "Only one more important thing…"

"What?"

"If you tell anybody that I kissed you while holding the elephant trunk upright, we'll have to have a serious talk."

She opened her mouth to tell him that at least it wasn't a tail, but, well, he was faster. Speaking was highly overrated, anyway.

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Eliot didn't tell her that the fifteen-minute walk would be climbing more than walking, and she had problems keeping up with him again. Brattleboro was surrounded by woods and hills, and he chose one particularly nasty slope. The road they walked on thrust them into the woods, and with every step, noise from the festival got quieter. At least he carried all the stuff he bought; her backpack contained only a few shirts.

Florence concentrated on noticing every important step in the _If it walks through the forest like a duck_ lesson, but she was very close to grumbling. She could tell where the East was, by a pale shadow of lighter clouds; dawn was closing in. Besides that, she was lost. The flickering of lights below them was her only marker, and she could sometimes see the river when the trees were not so tight around them.

In spite of her decision to keep silent, and not attack with _are we there yet _every five seconds, she almost gave in when she noticed that roadside lights, scarce for the last five minutes, had now disappeared.

Good thing she didn't have time to express her worry about wandering in the woods in complete darkness, because a sudden blinding light pierced through her eyes to the back of her skull. She blinked, half blind.

"Well, that's one extremely sensitive motion detector." She heard Eliot a few steps in front of her. "Stay there."

She squinted and nodded. "You see, I'm not asking why. I just stopped."

He said nothing, and she heard the door opening. Routine check of whatever this was, she knew that. There was nothing 'extremely sensitive' in the reflector that was still whipping her, but her eyes adjusted a little, and she could see the dark shadow of a building behind the offensive light.

One minute passed, another followed quickly. She could see a wire fence with plants, and a door where they came through without her noticing they weren't on the main road anymore, but on a smaller path. She was standing in the garden. There was a white patch on the fence door, and she went back to check it. FOR SALE, written in huge letters.

He broke into someone's _home_.

She turned to the reflector again. "I don't like this," she said, turning sideways a little so the left elephant ear shaded her eyes. "I can't… I mean, I wouldn't feel okay here. Can we just go away?"

"Nope," he said, and the light went off. She let out a sigh of relief and rubbed her eyes. He turned on the smaller light, above the door, and now she could see where he stood.

He stood on the wooden porch of a beautiful, small cottage. Her unease grew. "I know it's probably empty, waiting for buyers, so we won't do anything irreparable, but Eliot, there's a line in, in… criminal activities," she quickly said when he climbed down the stairs and stepped closer. "This isn't like snatching someone's cap. This is someone's home."

"Yes, someone's." He raised his hand with a set of keys in it. "Her name is Kim Leske, she is seventy years old, and she bought it today. She was also in a hurry, so she arranged with the previous owners that they leave the keys, contracts and everything else needed in one of the shops in town. That's where her grandson would pick them up after she transferred the money. Half of her identity was created a long time ago, and half of it while we drove from Boston."

"Oh. Hardison. You _bought_ it?" She felt her eyes widen, going from him to the house. "Just like that?"

"Later about the details." He took her backpack. "Now go see it. It's functional, completely equipped, and even pretty luxurious. Not your usual run of the mill safe house, but it'll do."

And that was an understatement. The door opened into one huge rom, with stairs along the wall that led to the attic. This country style must've had a special name; a mixture of expensive country lodge with high-tech touches. She could _live_ here. Somebody put a fortune in extravagant rugs and handmade furniture. On her left, through the arched passage, she could see glimpses of sparkling silver and glass, the kitchen. Even the white carpets felt like they were knee deep.

She stopped in the main room. The old wooden walls and ceiling made her feel warm, even though it was cold inside.

"It would be better if I managed to come out a little earlier, and set the heat and everything on timers," he said as if he read her thoughts. But she heard the quiet rustle around her; probably pipes, already working. He disappeared into the kitchen with some of the packages.

She sat in the deep green chair that engulfed her, and studied everything. These windows weren't so recklessly huge like at the Inn, and they had shutters. He would feel much safer here, then there. But this wasn't a normal 'safe house', in his terms.

Safe houses were supposed to be empty, arranged with only basic furniture, equipped with medical supplies and weapon arsenal for long periods of hiding, secured and invisible. Sterile. Easy to left behind, with nothing personal in it.

This wasn't that. This was… beautiful. A sweet family home. They would choose this kind of house if they were choosing it together, as a couple, if they weren't what they were – if their lives were normal, without any shadows or threats.

But the timing was weird. Only this morning did he watch the episode. He could search available houses online and even buy one in a hurry, yet… he led her here as if he knew where he was going. This wasn't the first time he had been here.

She leaned forward and traced a layer of dust on the table, and checked her fingers and the line they made. She wrote, once, that Buck had done the same, and proclaimed that the place had been deserted for two months. She had no idea how, or if, one could tell that in reality. Yet, she _knew_. "You found this house before you knew you had to clear out of Boston?" she asked when he returned from the kitchen. He stopped before the other packages.

And he didn't quite meet her eyes. "Yes, I noticed it then. I was checking possible safe houses because ours were all compromised in the Chilean mess. I saw and observed this one, and remembered it again today."

After she entered his life, and _after_ she had left him. "What a shame you had to leave it behind," she chirped lightly, not letting him see her thoughts, a veil of regret that fell around her heart. "But good thing it was still available today." All this time she was focused only on her own pain, directing it into hope, in a search for him. She hadn't dared to think about his side in this. About his loss and pain, and how he coped with it.

He would never tell her, she knew that. All she had were these glimpses, little things that she discovered.

"Every unpredictable thing is useful," he said. "Just like your Delta Quadrant. Who would think this would be a safe house for Eliot Spencer? This is the same as renting the Presidential Suite in the Hilton, while you're expected to hide in a sewer."

A logical justification for his motives. She decided to let him believe it, and returned his smile. "Show me everything, now," she said and let him take her on a quick tour through the rest of the house.

There were two small bedrooms upstairs, directly under the roof, and a huge bathroom complete with Jacuzzi.

She chirped, and teased him, and even made a few dirty suggestions about the Jacuzzi - but her regret headed towards worry.

Year after year, he had survived using the proved tactics. He probably bought a safe house near their new headquarters, too, maybe even more of them. What if all of them were sweet family homes? How long before someone noticed that and asked themselves why has Eliot Spencer changed his behavior? She knew that safe houses weren't for being _noticed_, but whatever, it wasn't just that. Small changes, invisible on their own, but glaringly obvious when you put them all together, could trigger some reaction.

Because of her.

_And who is paranoid now?_

They climbed down to the living room, and he turned off all outer lights, and locked the door. This place had a gas fireplace just like their apartment at the Chesterfield Inn, and when the flames started to twinkle, the temperature rose after only a minute. By the time they woke up, the entire house would be warm. She stood before it, enjoying the warmth, while he clanged with things behind her back.

She couldn't imagine a better place for spending their four days. _No, not four days_. Tuesday was already at their doorstep, and the sky was already grey. He would leave Friday morning. They had three days and three nights. A feeling of countdown rose around her, and she wondered if he was feeling it too.

She was tired and she needed sleep, but those hours would be wasted. She glanced over her shoulder at him, while he moved the chairs closer to the fireplace; she noticed the change. There was no hurry in his movement now, no visible tension, as if locking the door put an impenetrable barrier between them and the outer world. Only then did she accept that this was their last stand, that they were here to stay. Of course, if Hardison had worked his magic in covering their tracks, no one, and literally _no one_ would find them here.

She put too much thought into this, and she tried to chase away her worries. It was just a house, no meaning – and how could she know if this wasn't his usual sort of safe house? Maybe he was famous, the only hitter whose safe houses came complete with rose gardens. Sort of a trademark.

She sighed, pissed off because of her confused thoughts. And that was a mistake. Two arms wrapped around her shoulders and turned her to face him.

"I know you're still pissed because I threw you out of a warm bed in the middle of the night," he said. She wasn't. She looked at him and smiled, hiding – again – a disturbing thought that he didn't read her this time like he always did. _Small things, accumulating_. She chased that thought away too. "I've warned you it might be like this." There was a hidden caution in his eyes. She hated to see it – to be the cause it.

"Oh, I'm just grumpy when I wake up," she said. "Besides, I had different plans for our first time waking up together. Can't blame a girl for sulking – but you can pay this off. I have a few suggestions how."

"I have a few ideas myself," he said. His eyes grew darker in an instant, and his voice fell to a raspy caress that whipped through her body. Yet, she put both of her hands flat on his chest, keeping him at a distance.

"I want an explanation," she quickly said, trying to keep her hands immobile. It took so much effort.

His face had that well known pained expression, and she chuckled. "You look just like Nate, each time I tried to make him explain one of his plans. Consider yourself cornered, Spencer, and tell me about the buffer."

He rolled his eyes at her, sat in the chair, and pulled her to sit on his knee. "It's just a normal precaution. When you're chased – and we ain't being right now – you have to delay and divert that chase. Just like you did when you booked those ten hotel rooms. If someone was after us, they would have had to check them all out, losing valuable time while we put more distance between us and them."

"In short, it's the equivalent of a chase scene, when you run through the backstreets and you throw trash cans behind you, so the hunters have to jump over them?"

He squinted a little. "You lose the same amount of time throwing that trash, as the hunters lose with avoiding it, and it ruins your speed and rhythm more than theirs, but… yes. In general terms, something like that."

"And basically, you cleared those four days in advance?" she asked, not yet willing to call it three days. "I mean, with everything you put between us, they would need far more than four days to just check everything out and catch up with us, and we'll be gone by then?"

"The Chesterfield Inn was the last stage. We used the apartment, left some things there, showing we would be back – and I cut out anything that could connect us between here and there. The Chrysler, credit cards, and your phone."

"And even our descriptions." She finally remembered to take off the damn hat, and shook her head to revive the plastered curls. Then she took off his cap too, but she managed not to do the same with his hair. That would bring her too close to that smile of his, and she had more questions. "But, you made one mistake," she said. And that twitch of unease was back, because he did it for her, to spare her from riding the bike. "You took a taxi to Brattleboro."

"It ain't a mistake if you know you're doing it," he said. "In every chase, Brattleboro would be checked as a possible destination, being the closest town. Bikes would reveal the same, maybe even faster. Do you know why?"

She quickly thought. "Because you would have to send them back somehow?"

"Nope. Because when you rent bikes at three a.m., there's only a certain number of miles an untrained woman could ride it – and again it would highlight Brattleboro. They would only have to check the map and choose it."

"And the trail will end in a huge, crowded Festival, where no living soul could find us," she finished with a smile.

"Somethin' like that."

Okay, that was better. She leaned closer then, putting her hands on his shoulders. Her initial motive was to check the tension in them – none that she could feel – but he toppled her and pulled her closer.

She had more question, but this wasn't the right time for that. She reveled in the warmth of his arms. He rested his chin on her hair and just held her, in silence, while the grey light coming through the windows fought with the red glow of the flames. Though she couldn't see it, she _felt_ his smile. The whirling energies she had always felt in him, calmed down, and feeling him begin to relax brought peace to her too.

That was the exact moment when she thought, for the first time since she left him, about bubbles. A small piece of reality, separated from real life, closed off and protected, and all theirs. This was one bubble, too, exactly the same as they had before.

"Our time is limited," she whispered. "We can't make it longer, I know that. But we can make it… wider."

She felt his lips on her forehead and a brow; not a kiss, just a touch. "Yeah, we'll work on that," he whispered back. She was right about his smile, but now she felt all its gentleness.

Only his smile could feel like a soft blanket over her. She sighed and snuggled, and let time pass her by.

After a short while, she figured out something very important about that Jacuzzi – a brilliant idea that simply ought to be tested out – but when she tried to express it, she found speaking was far too demanding. Though she felt she was scooped up and carried away, keeping her eyes open was a task too hard to perform.

Her last thought was about peace; they were finally safe.

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The clock in the reception's back room hit nine a.m. Sterling agreed with Zarnick that they would wait until seven a.m. before they moved onto their next plan of action. Seven had passed, yet they'd decided to wait some more. Nine a.m. was the final border.

"So, that's it. He isn't coming back," Zarnick said. "And he made fools out of us. Good job."

He watched the Captain Detective who rubbed his eyes; they were all dead tired after a long sleepless night. He had sent his agents to sleep for a few hours in turns while they waited, but he didn't rest. If Spencer showed up, he would've been needed here. Zarnick didn't know what to expect, in spite of the file he read.

This round went to Spencer, and that made his blood boil.

"We found him!" A loud exclamation came from the door. Denise and Min-Jung - why did they always come together in a pair? – immediately correcting themselves when Zarnick's eyes flashed. "No, not Spencer," Denise said. "But the cabbie that picked them up here, and took them to Brattleboro. It's only several miles from here, and apparently, they have some sort of fair there."

"Brattleboro Free Folk Festival," Zarnick said. "Well, this was fun. Good luck, and let me know how it goes."

He didn't like the State policeman's smile. "What do you mean? Is there something dangerous at that fair? Some sort of Folk Hell's Angels roaming the streets on their tractors?"

Zarnick's smile grew wider. "You are British, aren't you?"

The boiling of his blood started, slowly, to color his face, as his anger grew. He was too tired for this shit. "Yes, I am," he snarled the answer. "We do not stop just because a target moved a few miles down the road. Why are the New Hampshire State Police bailing on a clear scent?"

The smile spread into a full grin now. "Because Brattleboro is in Vermont," Zarnick said. "When he crossed the Connecticut River, he crossed the border. Are you sure he didn't do it on purpose? He surely drove you around… Anyway, we have no authority there, you'll have to arrange that action with the Captain Detective of Vermont State Police."

_That. Son. Of. A. Bitch_. Of course Spencer knew exactly what he was doing.

Sterling dragged both hands through his hair. His blood pressure was letting out the steam out of all vents; he could practically hear the whistling. He was faced with the same long, maddening shit, for the third time; _for something you don't need, press one, for another useless thing, press two_… And hours and hours would be lost again, because of this stupid, ignorant, ineffective organization. He stopped the curse, and raised his head.

"Thank you, Captain Detective," he hissed through gritted teeth, and Zarnick grinned again, before he cleared away.

"So, you fucked this up," Min-Jung said. Denise twitched, but the same accusation was in her eyes, too. "We can wave him goodbye now. Ready to go home?"

"You're bored already?" he snarled at her. "Or you've given up? He is there. This is just a small delay."

"You can't know that for sure. We've lost too much time, he could be back in Boston already, or even worse – flying to Australia as we speak."

No, Spencer needed to stop. He remembered the red marzipan rose that Florence held that night when he first met her, and he remembered a helpless, beautiful smile that broke upon her face when he mentioned Spencer's name. In questions of love and lust, even the world's best retrieval specialists were degraded into stupid, crazy and reckless idiots. This was definitely Spencer's last step in evading an eventual chase – no rentals, no flying. He was there, hidden amongst a mass of people. And the most important thing – he thought he was safe, so now he would be even more relaxed.

He watched two impatient, nervous bloodhounds. Accusation in their eyes was the sign he waited to see. It showed that they were starting to take this personally, and that was good. That kept them on their toes, and gave a sharp edge to their blades.

His agents weren't used to being pushed and pulled around with such ease, and the fact it was being done by a man who didn't even know they were there made it even worse.

Yet, there was something in that last realization which made him think. Spencer might've known something; his moves were calculated to divert any police chase. There were too many legal obstacles he put before them, to be a mere coincidence. He put two State lines behind him, knowing how it would slow any Law Enforcement down. Maybe he used a different set of distractions in place for contract killers, and they just hadn't found them yet, but nevertheless, he accepted the thought that Spencer might have sensed The Law after him.

"Agent Sterling, with all due respect," Denise said, "I don't accept that we're beaten, and I object to stopping this action. I do, however, know that we have nothing left to do, so… all of the other agents agree that they want to be in the team that goes after him again. Whenever you start the next plan of action."

"What makes you think we're stopping this current action?"

They exchanged a confused glance. "We had the tracker with them," Min-Jung said. "We had Florence McCoy's phone number, with which we could locate her via GPS. We had his credit card number. All of that is now in that room, useless. If we couldn't catch him even with all that help, what are we supposed to do now? It's impossible. We. Have. Nothing."

He smiled. "You're right," he said softly. "We have nothing. It's impossible. They're gone."

One more careful glance.

"But?" Denise asked.

"But, now it's getting interesting. And I'm the only man who can catch him now, without anything, starting from scratch. And I can guarantee you that he'll be in our hands before this day ends. Using only this." He tapped his finger at his forehead. "Are you with me?"

Their smiles promised nothing good to their pray.

"Good. Leave two agents here, to observe the room in case they return. Leave everything intact, and warn the personnel on how to behave. The rest of us are going directly to Brattleboro."

"Yes, Sir."

He checked his watch and dialed the number of Vermont State Police.

_For something you don't need, press one, for another useless thing, press two_… He spat a curse, and slammed his fist into the table.

He would kill that bastard with his own hands, the moment he laid his eyes upon him.

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	4. Chapter 4

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 4

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Brattleboro looked like a ghost town, though morning was getting old.

Sterling sat on the terrace of a small café, watching Captain Detective Maddox Phillips returning to their table with two cups of coffee in his hands.

The cop stopped by the table. He put one coffee cup on the table, with a thoughtful expression and utter concentration. With his now free hand, he carefully felt the backrest of the empty chair, gripped it, and slowly lowered himself onto it. Then he put the other cup on the table, and smiled.

Sterling couldn't see his eyes, dark sunglasses hid them.

The view from the coffee terrace where they met showed the Down Town engulfed in fog. Scaffolds around the stages protruded from the fog like the ribcages of dead dinosaurs, and reflected on the cop's black glasses.

His head was empty after the sleepless night. He didn't know what fog whirled in Phillips' head - but the cop clearly spent the night at the Fair that cleared the streets of every living being.

The fog from the Connecticut River smelled like an open sewer.

"We are thrilled to help you," Maddox Phillips said after some time.

"Yes, we are all thrilled."

His agents stood lined behind his back. A few of Phillips' men stood on the other side, all of them with dark sunglasses and wavy movements. Their dark glasses were all turned in the direction of his Interpol team; under them they wore happy smiles. He sighed.

Phillips slowly turned his head to him. Ribcages on the glasses danced in the fog. "You are British, aren't you?"

He sighed again.

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The silence on the other end of the line was so deep, that Eliot could almost hear the distant Portland rain in the background. "Are you there, Hardison? Talk to me," he repeated his words once more.

"Pfrngh."

He put the phone between his ear and shoulder, and put the bags on the kitchen counter. "Yeah, I know it's only nine a.m., but-"

"Srxngh."

Damn. He completely forgot the time zones. It was six a.m. in Portland, of course. He got so used to having them all nearby, all the time, for years, that this separation felt awkward. "Anyway, you're awake now, so it's not important what time it is." Then he remembered that Hardison wasn't alone. "Did I wake Parker up? Give her the phone."

The dulled _thumpf_ of a head hitting a pillow was the only answer, before Parker said, "He is out cold. What do you need?"

And that was the difference between someone who lived on the street, always looking over her shoulder, and someone who committed crimes sitting by a computer while Nana kept bringing plates with pies.

"When he wakes up, tell him to do a thorough search on Flo's councilor on M7. He poses as former CIA."

Her snort told him she knew what it meant.

"It's not urgent, though. If he isn't busy. Anything new about Washington?"

"He is working on Castelman Security, we'll be ready by Friday…" There was a clear pause at the end of her sentence, so he said nothing, waiting for the rest. "I was wondering, would the improved quality of our Thief Juice make a difference to your menu? You said when we just arrived in Portland that the brew pub menu was the hardest menu to design, because beer had a stronger palette than wine."

"You're damn chatty so early in the morning." And Parker's chattiness usually meant she thought hard about something, so he paid attention.

"Our beer is better now. If we put that improved version on sale today, what changes would you suggest to today's menu? It's Tuesday. Do you want me to fetch the menu so I can tell you what's on-"

"I know what's on the menu today, I made it." He pinched the bridge of his nose, as a dreadful suspicion grew stronger. "Parker, you ain't messing with my menus, are you? Do you have any idea how many parameters one must count into-"

"No! It's, it's…a beer thing. Never mind, forget it. What about your, your… thing, there in Boston? Are you okay?"

He sighed. This was even worse. Parker's attempts at normality were sometimes heartbreaking, and this one was close. He could growl her question away, but that would confuse her, after she clearly put some effort into 'paying attention and noticing somebody else's feelings'.

"Yeah, Parker, I'm okay. Thank you for asking." He could feel her smile when his last sentence – something he would never say in normal circumstances – confirmed it was okay to ask, and that she didn't do anything wrong.

"And how is Florence doing? Tell her I have a few pieces of advice for her," she said, and that reminded him of her progress. It was too easy to see her as the old Parker, from their early days, forgetting how much she had changed. She even managed to click with Florence; the one thing he believed was impossible for Parker, to actually like someone foreign. Or maybe he was right; maybe melting people really was Florence's superpower. She surely melted him.

He took too long a pause, and the feeling of withdrawal on the other side was clear. "I'll tell her – no, wait, no way, I won't. Your advice is deadly."

"You actually thought about it, didn't you? You're getting soft," she chuckled and cut the line. He swore under his breath, hoping she would remember to tell Hardison about the search, and put the phone in his pocket.

He had things to put in the fridge, and in the bathroom. It was too early to wake Florence up; she fell asleep around four a.m. He had put her in the bed, then checked and locked everything, and planned to stay awake for a while. He had also planned only to tuck her in when he returned to the bedroom to see if she was still as mesmerizing as she was when he laid her on the bed. She was.

He woke up after four hours.

He wasn't feeling rested, though he was, merely reckless. Yet, he had to sleep at some point, and though he could function on only a few hours a day for a long time, he had an accumulated fatigue from Afghanistan.

His feeling that he shouldn't sleep at all, _ever again_, when she was with him, wasn't a hunch, wasn't a paranoia – it was simply expecting Murphy's Law to strike in full force. _If anything can go wrong, it will, strength of which is proportional to the importance_. He spent the most part of morning trying to chase that feeling away. He even went to extremes, and forced himself to leave her alone in the house, completely without any protection, while he went for a quick jog and for groceries. The plan was only to warm up a little, yet he ended with breaking a world record, sprinting downhill like an avalanche.

He left everything in the kitchen, and went upstairs to check on her.

Day breaking through the shutters gave him just enough light to see her shape. He lay on his side of the bed as silently as he could, but she stirred nevertheless. She rolled to him and sneaked into his hug, still sleeping.

"Shirt. Not again." Her quiet murmur was the first sign of waking up, so he quickly tucked her closer.

"Sleep. We ain't going anywhere," he whispered back, listening to her breathing until he was sure she was out again.

And this – this was the closest thing to happiness he could imagine. Not just feeling her warmth, and her arms around him, holding him tight even in sleep – but the whole morning. The fact that he knew how adorably grumpy she would be when she woke up, and how she would make him laugh; the feeling they were at ease finally, and that the day would slowly unravel in this house.

He had something to look forward to.

Maybe it was a mistake that he brought her here, though. He should've chosen something colder for their first meeting; maybe hidden them in the heart of a big city, in some modern, high tech penthouse. This house was made for a couple, and the two of them in here only reminded him of a life that wasn't for him. Not even with her.

Parker was right. He _was_ getting soft. Thinking about a normal life, about _coming home to someone you love_, could only mess him up and put them all in danger. There was no reality in which he would come home, watching warm, lit windows, to the woman that waited for him. Not without checking the perimeter first. No, his life was the dark windows, and alarms on the door, and one bag packed in the corner of the room, always waiting.

Damn, but the chance of that happening was only an inch away. His fingers closed that inch and caressed her bare shoulder. They couldn't have their life together, but he could make the most of it. Every time they saw each other, they could have a small piece of that life. A few days every month, at least, unless – no, until - he scared her away with his paranoia, and his closeness.

He watched her sleep, her arms around him, so relaxed and peaceful, and he knew how much he had to change, to be able to keep her. As if his entire life led to this point in time. All his walls now had the doors opened for her, yet it wasn't enough. And it wasn't her. For the first time, _he_ was the one who didn't want the walls between him and somebody else. His walls had destroyed everything he had with Aimee. If he was able to open up to her, to tell her enough she needed to know, to include her, she would've waited for him.

He hovered over a giant 'reset button' for his entire life, and he was scared to death. Scared of losing her, scared of change, scared of the future he didn't think he deserved… scared of Eliot Spencer the most.

_Just don't mess this up, okay_?

Betsy knew him too well.

He had to learn how to let people into his life, how to share. The touch of two bodies was worthless, if their minds and hearts didn't touch as well. He could do it – for her.

And with every move of his fingers across her shoulder, the rust on his soul cracked some more.

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Eliot wasn't there when Florence woke up.

She rummaged through the bedroom and bathroom, feeling disorientated. The diffused light coming in from the window couldn't tell her what time it was. No phone, no watch anywhere around. She felt rested, as if she slept for many hours, and that scared her. She didn't want to spend their Tuesday sleeping.

The bathroom was filled with everything necessary. She found even her Garnier avocado oil and shea butter shampoo and conditioner, and she didn't know whether she should giggle, or run out to kiss him senseless.

The former course of action was on her mind since she woke up, nevertheless, so she considered that covered in advance. She left the bathroom wrapped up in the fascinating creamy robe, fluffy and as rich as vanilla cream; she was half ready to spend the rest of their stay here in it.

When she climbed down to check where he was, she found new grocery bags on the table. He was in Brattleboro while she slept, so maybe he went again for more things.

She made two cups of coffee, and decided to wait for him in the garden.

The door was unlocked. She opened it as silently as she could, and peeked out first, just in case.

She expected to see a shabby, neglected garden, and when she smelled the fog and moisture she almost closed the door to keep that outside… but what waited for her was a fairy mist, golden and dreamy. The sun penetrated through the fog and trees, coloring it with soft, pale gold. No wonder she couldn't tell what time it was. It wasn't cold outside, and that sun promised a decently warm day, so her robe would do.

The lawn spread slightly downward, to the door in the fence, and road. They were surrounded by tall trees, yet, there was a clearing around the road, and downhill, and she could see a part of the Connecticut River Valley spreading in the distance, disappearing in a bluish haze. They were high in the hills; no neighbors close.

She sat on the stairs and wrapped the robe tighter around her. The sun still wasn't warm enough, but it would be, when the fog clears out. She warmed her fingers on her cup of coffee and took one deep, deep breath. No sounds around, just sleepy birds. No wind that would stir the golden mist that lingered around her in layers.

Then she saw him. She caught a movement out of a corner of her eye, on the left where the lawn entered the first trees – and for a moment she held her breath watching his slow moves.

_Tai – chi_.

She thought he would practice something faster, more violent – but watching him now, his slow grace, his every move controlled and in perfect harmony with the nature around him – just then did she realize how deadly he really was. His hands moved mere inches from the leaves, yet neither one moved, nor the layers of mist seemed disturbed.

She sipped her coffee, enjoying the pure aesthetics of the performance she witnessed.

He was, also, shirtless and barefoot. She eyed the line of his sweatpants, loose on his hips, and studied the dance of his muscles. Oh, her fingers remembered that same dance from the previous night, and she ached to go to him and wrap her arms around him; yet, the calmness of his mind was more important now. She could feel that harmony in his every move, in every slow breath, in his closed eyes.

She hoped he knew she was there.

She forced her gaze to move away from him, and checked the bushes on the edge of the forest. There were too many places where someone could hide and observe. She stopped her spiraling into worry when she eyed the trees, looking for snipers. That was too much. This was a safe place. He wouldn't be so relaxed and calm if he thought someone could be near.

Besides, taking her eyes off him was impossible.

Damn Tuesday, and their limited time. The sun was high. It could even be noon already. The moment he finished with this and came to her, their time would rush, she knew that. One blink, one heartbeat, and it would be night.

She shook her head and sighed. She wasn't this whiny and insecure even in the worst danger six months ago. Maybe she should really try and put this pathetic creature on paper, try something new.

_As every romantic heroine, Ashley Annabelle decided that this wasn't the beginning of a relationship, and something to enjoy. No, she had to suffer; coloring every perfect moment with doubts was the only way to raise drama, and spoil everything_.

She huffed at herself, and got up. Making breakfast – or brunch or lunch – would keep her occupied, and give Eliot time to practice in peace. He always knew when she watched him.

It took ten minutes before she even reached the kitchen, because only then had she time to explore the living room. She opened the shutters and let the glow from outside reach every corner; it painted the wooden walls in orange hue.

A huge TV screen was a surprise. She turned it on, found a cooking channel knowing he wouldn't mind, and let it talk in the background.

The fridge was next. He filled it with enough food to last two months, yet she didn't let that disturb her, or make her start counting their days again. She took out what she needed, and got down on business.

Though the TV chirped something cheerful, she heard his steps before he opened the door, so she had a few moments of pure joy of observing him before he noticed her behind the kitchen counter.

Oh yes. The moisture from the mist, with the sweat from his practice, _did_ curl his hair a little.

"Good morning." She gleamed at him, than hated herself that her heart was so on her sleeve, but gave in nevertheless because there was nothing she could do about it. Operation 'Kissing him senseless' was just one step from execution, yet she decided to at least let him change.

She waved the knife at him instead of running to him. "Barefoot in the mud, and then stepping on the white carpets?" she said. "I don't think so."

He stopped as if she threw that knife at him instead.

What did she say? _Oh._ She observed the scene; cheerful TV voice, a woman wearing only a robe, chirping from the kitchen, welcoming her man… plus-minus the knife. Maybe it was too domestically for him? Maybe it was threatening, too homey, too… after all, their relationship was on a very shaky basis. She couldn't go full-domestic Goddess on him, not if she didn't want to chase him away. Independent spirits could think of this as a threat.

He hesitated, staring at her; the feeling shaded deep in his eyes wasn't clear for her to recognize it. The strange emotion evaporated in a glimpse, and a quick smile spread on his face. _Too quick_.

She needed to back off, immediately, to give him space, to let him breathe.

"Stay there, I'll bring you a towel." She hurried upstairs, not waiting for his reply. Fear that she would do something, or say something, that would destroy this, attacked without warning. It grew into a panic when she realized she couldn't imagine Friday, and his leaving. Nor she knew how she would survive Saturday without him. She grabbed the towel from the bathroom, but she stayed there for a moment. This love was worse than a drug; he was already in her veins, she _needed_ him. It was crazy, illogical, it hurt. And she had to return there and show him that she wasn't so deeply in love that the only thing she wanted was to cling to him forever. That she wasn't a desperate, needy leech.

"Bring my shirt, too," he yelled from downstairs, and that moved her. She picked up his blue shirt. Ashley Annabelle would hug it and sniff his scent – she decidedly put it across her shoulder and paid no attention to it while going back down.

He crossed his arms and tilted his head when she arrived – the same pose he had while waiting for her at the Convention. "Okay, what's wrong?" And his eyes were unreadable, too.

"What do you mean?"

"I've seen a good share of your running away to the upper bathrooms. I even explained to you what tells you had. Remember that?"

"Coincidence. Pure coincidence." She put a smile on her face and avoided his eyes. That proved to be the wrong move. Her eyes glued to his chest, and one drop of sweat that slowly slid down.

"Flo, look at me." Impatience crept into his voice now, and she raised her head to his upset eyes. "You went upstairs for the towel," he said.

And she came back with the shirt only. She sighed. She had to think of something very, very fast. "I was trying to make something to eat," she said. "I don't want you to think that I want you only in bed." She did, but she wanted so much more. _Him, now, always, forever_. Yet, telling him that would make him feel trapped. She managed a smile, not trying to hide the confusion behind it. "And then you came in looking like _that_, and how am I supposed to concentrate on food now? Of course I ran away, you fool… the only other action was to jump on you right away."

The relief in his eyes was clear. "Well, thank you for that consideration of my feelings." He turned to the kitchen. "What are you preparing?"

"A sandwich," she said.

His eyes glazed at an instant. "A sand- what? Of all the things I brought, you decided to-"

"I don't cook."

"You don't – what?" The disbelief on his face was comical, and she barely stopped her chuckle.

"I'm sure you now deeply regret that you didn't email me a questionnaire before you came to Boston. I don't cook. It's a waste of time."

His pained smile was only half false. "Terrible. We'll work on that. Waste of time? I can't believe-"

"You said this would be complicated, maddening and demanding. We just found a 'maddening' part of it. That's progress, right?"

This time, his eyes got the predatory glow. "And you said that you were willing to learn, if I recall correctly."

Oh shit. She took a step back. "I wasn't thinking about cooking lessons." He followed her, one swift, lean step, and she squinted. "C'mon, Eliot Spencer, you can't possibly think about wasting our time on chopping onions!" Though, when she looked at him better, she changed her mind. Even chopping onions with him sounded promising, especially in this shirtless state.

"Cooking isn't a waste of time." He reached and took the loose end of her robe belt; she cursed silently at the challenge in his eyes. If she took one step back more, she would be the one who untied it; he was just innocently holding it. One step forward, and she could lick that drop that caught her attention. She stopped, trying to concentrate on that damn cooking, and not on him. _Mission impossible_.

"Okay, okay. Cooking. Onions. Whatever you want." Besides, he wouldn't bother teaching her to cook if he was here just for a few days of hot sex. That thought brought her smile back in full force.

The challenge left his eyes; he took one sharp breath. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Smile like that."

He wrapped his arms around her, the fool. The worst thing he could do if he wanted her to stop smiling. "Good morning," she said, and kissed him.

Now Tuesday could begin.

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The action could begin.

Everything was set in motion, and Brattleboro swarmed like an attacked beehive. Vermont State Police – half of them in civilian clothes, half of them in uniforms, and many of them weary on their feet – poured into the Festival, and James Sterling had only to move his hand occasionally, and point into another pressure point. They knew the drill, so he just waited until they finish with all the regular steps in a search. His time would come after they ran out of every means possible.

For now, every man on the field had pictures of their suspect, which he'd snatched back from Zarnick's men. He pinned the picture of a long-haired man on the board, and remembered to warn them all that he might have his hair braided, or in a ponytail. Their last encounter in Dubai was almost a year ago, and that meant his hair was much longer now.

The cops patrolled the Fair, combing the streets that started to fill again after people rested from the all-nighter, and went outside for another dose of fun.

He established his headquarters in a small hotel in the middle of the fair, Lachis Inn – checking everything in it first, because he did remember the Maltese Falcon screw up – and all his agents were working on security tapes from all the street cameras in range.

The State Police worked on motels, hotels, hostels, all private accommodations, both legal, and not so legal.

Machinery was set in motion, and he expected the results to start pouring in very soon. After all, Brattleboro was a small town, and there was only limited number of places where they could be.

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Hardison sent a grateful smile to Sophie who put a cup of coffee by his keyboard. Orange soda would do, normally, but this disastrous day started way too early, and he needed something stronger.

It took an hour to find all the oca suppliers in the county, and make orders. The three tubers that Sophie and Nate had hunted down and killed last night weren't enough, so he swapped Tuesday's menu with Wednesday's. That would calm the hysterical kitchen staff, and give him one more day to find more oca.

Nate and Parker were about to go to one more source, close to them. Sophie… well. Sophie would stay here. He sent an evil grin to Nate, who was in his murmuring, sulking phase, and fetched his phone, dialing Eliot's number. He dearly hoped he would interrupt something important, just like the bastard had ruined his sleep. Revenge was a bitch.

The phone rang six times without answering, and his grin deepened.

A click of an open line stopped the seventh ringing.

"Good mor-" his grin froze when a shrieking sound whipped his ear. Sophie almost dropped the other cups right in his lap. A shrieking that lowered to a thundering and high hiss, while all four of them stood frozen. "What-Eliot, what's going-"

Another loud bang came before he heard words. "In the middle of a situation here - call ya later, can't-" Hissing grew over his voice, and his words were cut off with a low grunt of pain.

He jumped on his feet as adrenaline surged through him; Nate was already by his table. "What the hell is going on?! Eliot, talk to me!" His hands went to the keyboard, but stopped – there was nothing he could do now with it.

More clanging, more hissing. "Can't talk-" his voice fell to a strangled coughing – yet now they all heard another sound in the background, that seemed like another voice. Hardison frantically typed, putting the call on his feed, cleaning sounds as fast as he could, until he managed to isolate that voice.

A woman laughing.

What the hell…? "Eliot, talk to me. Are you okay? What's going on?"

"Fuck this shit," he grumbled. "Stop pointing that pipe at me, I have to speak with Hardisfghfffgh-" Another wave of laughter came across, now almost clear.

Hardison lowered himself back in his chair; the relief softened his knees. "You're aware you pressed speakerphone when you answered this call, Eliot?"

"Fuck." He obviously took the phone, because his voice sounded closer now. "I have two words for you, Hardison: Jacuzzi malfunction. And if you ever mention this again, I'll cut you in seven pieces and put you as a main meal on the menu you're not allowed to touch, change, or even think about-"

"Jacuzzi malfunction?" he grinned. "That means you're naked while we're speaking? That's for sure the one thing I don't want to mention again, _ever_ – I'll have to meditate to erase that image-"

"Oh, shut up," his growl was somewhere between blind rage and helpless laughter. "Damn thing exploded, the air vent hit me in the eye, everything fell apart, and the whole bottle of bath crystals released itself into water, and that damn – Jesus, bubbles, bubbles everywhere. Wait a sec." His voice was quieter now, but clear nevertheless. "_Don't touch that pipe either – don't touch anything else and stop spraying- ya know, you're not helping with that cackling-_"

Hardison glanced at the others; Sophie had her cooing face, Nate's hand was over his eyes, and a maniacal grin spread over Parker's face.

"Eliot!" he called louder. "Yo man, eyes up here – turn to the phone and speak. I have news. Good news and bad news. What do you want first?"

"Wait." After a few seconds, clang of the door closing separated them from the laugh and gurgling water. "Listening. Bad news first." No trace of laugh was in Eliot's voice now.

"You were right about Florence's councilor. He isn't CIA, he is one of yours. Ex- Navy gone bad, Black Ops, mercenary, you name it. Clark Woodward. You know him?"

"Heard the name. That's it?"

"Yeah, nothing recent. You want us to do something…"

"No, I'll take care of that, just send me contact details. Thank you. Good news?"

"Sorta good news. Good for you, for us - not so much. Ya see, Sophie and Nate went to some birthday party last night. Drinking, good time, a little singing… maybe too much singing." Hardison turned his head to the pair in question while talking; as Sophie's smile grew wider, Nate's eyebrows went lower. He smirked and continued, "In short, she hurt her vocal cords. She can't talk, only whisper – mostly she looks like a goldfish opening and closing her mouth." That erased her smile, the grifter frowned. Nate grinned. "And that means the two of them can't do their part of our job here – so we'll have to postpone for two more days, until she's able to work on her mark. Meeting in Washington isn't Friday morning, it's Sunday, until further notice."

Hardison noticed Nate's suspicious glance at Parker, but the thief returned a bland, empty stare.

A few seconds of silence on the other side was perfect; Eliot was obviously oscillating between being grateful and embarrassed because of the obvious setup. He quickly continued, "And that reminds me of all the work here in the Brewery; it's pretty messy here, people are very busy, and accidents happen. Do you have plan B for your menus? I mean, what would happen if they drop the week's menu in a bowl of soup – do you have, by any chance-"

"Hardison." The deep, deadly growl didn't sound grateful at all.

"Okay, forget I asked – but working without a backup menu in this world full of peril is reckless, simply reckless, I say."

"What. Have. You. Done?"

"You sound pretty nasty for a guy who just crawled through the bubbles. Gotta go now, we'll let you know if Par – if anything else happens, delaying the Washington job." Hardison quickly cut the call, and vented one long sigh.

The rest of the team scattered without any further comment, yet _someone_ stayed.

Hardison felt the stare at his back, cold, deadly – the stare of never-blinking eyes.

"Not a word," he muttered over his shoulder, than glanced at the plant.

George watched his every move with barely hidden pity.

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She radiated gloating through her smile, but he kept his mouth shut and sank deeper in the chair.

A barely audible chuckle came from behind him; she attacked his hair with a towel. For the third time. Even three rinses couldn't erase that awful stench. "You know, cedar and eucalyptus essential oils are great for your health." Even her voice sounded strained; she suppressed gleaming with full force, sounding too gentle, too caring. "And lavender? It's the mother of all oils. Great for relaxation, anxiety; soothing and calming effects are-"

He pressed the cold bottle of beer against his eyebrow and growled. "Not when the entire bottle is shot in someone's face." A choked sound now came, and he turned around. She put her hand over her mouth not to laugh, and he couldn't feel grumpy at that sight.

"Are you going to sulk for the entire day?"

"I'm not sulking. I swallowed a gallon of perfumed bubbles. My face is locked in a permanently disgusted expression."

"Let me check that." She came to a stop in front of him, and that was enough. Her robe was tied loosely, and it slid from her left shoulder just enough to reveal her collarbone. Dear god, and what a perfect collarbone it was. He mentally pushed it up on the list of three hundred seventy eight beautiful things about her.

"See?" She grinned and he raised his eyes to hers. Her curls were almost dry. "No disgust, as I can see. And now, unless you want another hair wash, I suggest we clear out and pray that it will dry itself out by the time we return."

He eyed the water on the floor, parts of pipes, and that damn air vent. Cleaning up could wait. "Good idea."

They both quickly left the crime scene, and went to the bedroom to get dressed.

The plan before the Jacuzzi disaster was to finish their meal, and after that, walk to Brattleboro and visit the fair. It seemed that every step of it was obstructed, though he wouldn't call the first half an hour in Jacuzzi an obstruction.

With that part finished, he could hope they would return to the plan.

And of course, the trouble started again. Getting dressed together proved to be an impossible task to perform, they both agreed on that. It was his fault, in the beginning, because he had to inspect that collarbone closer, to see if it really qualified to jump up the list. It did. But it messed up the ranking on the rest of his already rearranged list, and then clothes were in the way of verifying. At least he could assure her that not a trace of lavender and eucalyptus was left on her skin. He wasn't that lucky with the scent, it stuck to him, as she found out after forty-five minutes of _getting dressed together_; forty-five minutes that left him sprawled on his back and seriously considering a nap. But no, there would be enough time to sleep this night. They had to use the day as much as they could. He forced himself to get up – and she wasn't so eager to move either – and to take a quick shower. _Quick and not exploding, if possible_.

Showering went well, though he categorically refused to use her hair conditioner; he didn't want her scent on his hair, just on hers.

And, after that, they returned to the bedroom to _get dressed together_…

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"I can't believe I'm doing this," Eliot said after the third minute of their slow walk to Brattleboro through the sunny forest. The fog had cleared, leaving behind a warm day. He was even able to smell the wet leaves and soil, the eucalyptus and lavender finally cleared from his nose. He wasn't so sure about his lungs.

"Doing what? Shopping again? Last night we bought nothing for you, and as much as I adore that blue shirt, we have to buy you a few t-shirts. Short sleeves. It's warm enough."

"Doing _this_." He raised his hand with sandwich in it.

"You mean, savoring the first meal I ever made for you?"

He quickly glanced at her; no bitch face in sight, only a mocking smile. She knew very well how torturous this was for him. "I bought perfectly good baguettes, fresh, soft, and still warm. Now I'm eating tasteless sawdust. You have a touch of death with food. You are the creature most dreaded in culinary circles; they whisper about you late at night – a food vampire. When you touch food, you suck out its life force-"

"Or, you left them out to dry, and I couldn't save them even with that cheese? I don't remember you being this melodramatic six months ago."

"I'm not melodramatic, I'm horrified."

She chuckled. "Suck it up, buttercup. Seriously, I'll start calling you buttercup in public, if you don't admit this is a proper meal."

The worst of all, it had a touch of lavender, probably from his hands. He sighed, totally un-melodramatic, and glared at her. He managed to keep the glare at her smile for an entire three seconds, and that was a progress. "So, if a sandwich tastes like a meal, looks like a meal, and it's proclaimed to be a meal, then it is?"

"Oh, a duck lesson! I wondered when I'd get another one."

"All duck lessons are basically the same as the one I've told you already: when you see something suspicious, act as if it's true, not just a possibility. That's all."

She made a few quick steps and went in front of him, but continued to walk backwards. He eyed the road that went downward, prepared to catch her if she stumbled, then chew another bite of the dry terror he held in his hand.

"I have one question about that," she said. So, this wasn't an inspection of his _savoring_. She looked almost uncomfortable for the moment.

"Lhisthen-" He swallowed, hoping the bite wouldn't scrape his throat, and repeated. "Listening."

"You were talking about immediate reaction to possible threats." Her eyes darted sideways, avoiding his. "What do you do, if you missed that immediate reaction, and you're still not sure if there was any danger at all? How much time has to pass before you decide it was a false alarm?"

He slapped the protective lunatic who was about to scream, and stopped walking. She stopped, too, and put her hands on the small of her back, under the empty backpack she carried.

"What's going on?" His voice fell, and he couldn't blame the sandwich for it. "Is something, someone, threat-"

"No, no, stop – geez, I knew you would freak out at an instant – I'm talking about six months time frame!"

He quickly calculated time – six months ago she returned from New Zealand. "So, you noticed the surveillance around Nate's apartment? Very good. They weren't glaringly obvious as usual. Have you found my rose in the upper bathroom?"

"Yes, I did." She smiled and gentleness for a moment covered that cautious impression in her eyes. But only for a moment, it returned at once. "So, you know that State Police, FBI, and especially Interpol, are after your team, and you're not worried about it?"

"They're always after us. When they get too near, we clear out. And to answer your question – yes, six months is enough time to stop worrying about usual threats. If somebody wanted to do something, they would have, already. Why did you say 'especially Interpol'?"

"Because of this." She raised her hand and waved the finger with the wedding ring on it. Then she raised her other hand, and showed him the silver bracelet. "And this."

He waited. She eyed him with the same worry in her eyes.

After five seconds he asked, "You ain't planning to leave this as a cliffhanger until the next episode?"

"Very funny. No. Listen, about that wedding ring-"

"No, you listen." He threw the sandwich in the woods, caught her under her arm turning her in the right direction, and continued walking. "Your marriage; your divorce; your decisions. It's not mine to ask about it, much less to tell you what jewelry you should wear. You don't have to explain any-"

"I'm wearing that ring because of the surveillance on Nate's apartment, that included mine, too. Nate was right when he had told me I might be watched – the PVA Ceremony drew a lot of attention, the attention of some dangerous, sleazy people. Nobody knows about my divorce. Jethro agreed to keep it quiet, I told him why. If I tried to contact you, they would know – and if they knew I was free, they would expect that contact sooner. Only if nothing changed in my life could I expect their attention to calm down and finally stop."

That quick, somehow breathless and confused explanation wasn't her usual way of talking. There was more to it. They took a few steps more, her watching her feet, before she spoke again, "And, and, Jethro was extremely important in my life. I loved him, and I will continue to love him, just differently, always. I plan to keep his ring."

"Okay," he said carefully. "You don't have to be upset about that."

"I'm not!" She hastened her steps. _Yeah, right, not upset at all_. He adjusted his stride with hers and waited, resisting the urge to pull her backpack to slow her down.

"This is something I made for you," she took off her bracelet and pushed it into his hand. "I had it done, the jeweler made it the way I wanted. And, it means nothing, as in it's just something useful for you, like, like… a new wallet. Or a shirt." She proceeded, before she noticed he wasn't following her, huffed and continued. He just watched her shifting. "It's a non-obligatory bracelet," she added with a small, unhappy smile, and he knew he had to stop this outpour before she tangled herself into it even more. "If that's too much, and too soon, I'll take it back. I wore it all the time and got used to it, so it won't be a problem. My wedding ring is here to divert the surveillance – the bracelet is here to, to… remind me of you."

He started to lose count of possible triggers for her disturbance, so instead observed the bracelet. Silver, pretty solid, with feathers – or small wings – wrapped around the base. Not a thing that a lady would usually wear, but it was a perfect match with his silver and leather bracelets that she must've remembered.

He put it on his left wrist, and immediately she relieved her posture. So, the bracelet was troubling her. He thought it was the surveillance.

"I always wanted to ask you, why do you wear all of them only on the left wrist?"

"One more thing your CIA councilor didn't tell you?"

"So, there is a reason?"

"Of course." He glanced once more at the silver, and smiled. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

"No, it's not beautiful. I said it's useful. Push the catch down, and then to the left."

He did it, and wings clicked, darting out two small blades.

"For zip ties and ropes." She finally smiled again. "I tried to find a way to make a charm out of handcuff key, but it was in vain."

"This is so…." He stopped, and grinned. "Romantic."

She just grinned, and pulled him after her to continue walking.

One day he would understand what the hell was making her so nervous about all this. Not now. His questions about that surveillance six months ago would wait a little as well. The first houses were in sight; he could hear music and applauding, and he wanted her to have a good time, not to fidget about something that disturbed her.

Most of all, he wanted her to forget a world in which surveillance was a threat.

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Eliot Spencer's face hadn't pinged on any camera recordings from the previous night, certainly none they'd checked so far. They only had two partial results for Florence McCoy. A woman with short blond hair, of her height, was spotted in two short sequences, but there wasn't enough light to confirm whether it was her, or not. Besides, the guy in her company wore a cap that hid his face. Denise caught them once more, but from the back, and they dismissed them though his height fitted the description – the guy had short hair.

Maddox Phillips put a few of his men on the roofs. The Captain joined them in their new make-shift headquarters, along with a few of his men with laptops. This time he didn't have sunglasses, and his eyes were brighter. His men wore permanently happy smiles, even when they weren't looking directly at his agents.

Regular Brattleboro Police helped with the footwork, pushing their pictures in front of the noses of people in the bars, cafes, and at market booths. Only one confirmation arrived, from the stand with the caps; a woman confirmed their general description, but couldn't tell with certainty that they really were the pair who bought an elephant hat.

Sterling didn't tell Maddox Phillips that there was a very weak possibility that either of them would be spotted in the open. Spencer knew how to hide within a mass of people. Their only hope in finding them lay in finding the place where they settled, but hours crawled by without _any_ progress.

"How do you know they didn't return to the Chesterfield Inn?" Phillips asked.

"Zarnick had left a few men there, and two of my agents are there, waiting. They won't return there, except on the last day, to pick up their things…" Sterling trailed off when he remembered that Florence's phone, now that he was sure they weren't coming back for some time, could give some useful clues. She had called hotels and booked rooms. They had those call records, but with her phone here, he could check her search results, and see if she maybe left something useful. Her tablet with the tracker might've been used, too, even though she left it in the car. He pulled out his phone, and dialed one of his agents who were back there on watch.

"Amanda, I want you to take Florence's phone, and all things they've left. Use Spencer's car keys and fetch the Samsung gift box from the Chrysler. Call me when you're done."

"Yes, Sir."

Two State Police officers came in with pizza boxes. Both him and Maddox watched them in fascination; the cops went straight to Min-Jung and Denise, holding the boxes as if half ready to kneel and put them before their feet. Only he could see that the smiles the cops got in return had a lot of snarl in them; they were pissed off because he had held them here, not letting them search the town with the cops. That was out of question – Spencer had an eye for women, and he might've seen them at the Convention. Being with Florence or not, he would recognize them in an instant. Besides, the two of them were his newest agents, and he hadn't seen them in any real action yet, and checked how trigger-happy they were. He made a mental note to keep them close when the trap sprung closed, though they always were around him, all the time.

An itch he had felt while thinking about them the last time, returned once again. Even the rookie cop would've been able to keep an eye on Florence at the Convention. Yet, this time, that thought morphed into suspicion. What if she was allowed to escape from under surveillance? And why would they do that? Being this close to him meant they had the perfect insight to every step they took, and how close they were to Spencer. Why? To warn him? He stopped there – not even Eliot Spencer could seduce every woman in the world and make them do things for him. He especially couldn't plant them in _his_ team.

But Nate Ford might.

He always scratched his itches; a thorough check of all their credentials was next on the list, as soon as they finished with this.

His phone rang. "Yes, Amanda?" He heard a clang instead of a voice. "What are you doing?"

"I'm on the back seat of Chrysler, Sir, throwing away two child seats. I see the box, it's under one of them…wait a second…" He heard more clanging and grunts. "Here we go, I got it."

"Bring it to Brattleboro."

"And leave…?"

"It's a ten-minute drive, you'll be back in no time. Just do it."

Captain waved his hand to draw his attention the moment he put the phone down.

"And, this is it, Sterling." Maddox Phillips scratched the last name off the list they had made of possible places for them to stay, and pulled out a little pin on the huge satellite map of Brattleboro and connecting villages.

Sterling had been watching him do that every ten minutes, as reports of his men were coming in. Name after name, pin after pin, checked and removed from the board.

"This is the last private accommodation in Brattleboro," Captain said. "No results. They haven't checked in anywhere in the town. I have a few men who are checking all the remote farms that rent rooms, but-"

"No, he won't rent some dirty, cheap room. I know him. Not for her."

"You've said she was a hostage."

"She will be _used_ as a hostage when we attack, Captain."

"Anyway, we've checked _all_ the rooms for rent in town, both cheap and luxury. He might have someone here, someone he knows, who offered him place to stay, but our hands are tied in that case. No options left."

"No, that's not correct. We just went through all the initial steps involved in this kind of search – we had to, to complete everything, and dismiss any possible targets. Now it's time for the next stage. Check every real estate transaction for this area – the clue word is _purchase_."

"Nobody buys a house for a few days of hanky-panky!"

"Not your usual suspects, no. I know that particular check isn't a standard procedure – but this isn't your standard suspect, either. He is international criminal with almost unlimited funds. If he wants a safe house, he will buy one."

They all just watched him. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. "In more simple words: ya'll find me all newly sold houses in Brattleboro. Unless you have something else on your minds, some brilliant yet unrevealed strategy – short of patrolling the streets and hoping you'd bump into them."

_That_ erased all those happy smiles that were driving him nuts for the entire morning; he snarled at the cops. "It had to be yesterday. He just arrived then from Boston and picked her up – the episode aired on Sunday night. Find all sales for Monday, all properties. It can't be that many."

The Captain nodded to one of his men at a laptop.

Sterling took one more coffee and prepared for another round of waiting.

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"Revenge is a bitch," Florence said when they stopped before the first store, leaving the river of people that was flowing towards the stage performance down the street. "I left the elephant hat at home, but I didn't forget about it." That word 'home' so naturally slipped from her lips, that only when she heard herself, did she realize she said it.

"Good thing you reminded me," he said, and stepped aside to let one pair pass them by. When he stepped back to her, he had a cap in his hand. It even matched his red one. He put it on her head, and pulled the brim down to her nose.

"You should stop doing that." She raised her head to peek out from under the brim. "Three more visits to Brattleboro, and a pitchfork mob of cap-less people would be after you."

"Remind me to tell you about pitchfork mobs in Mumbai…"

"Later. First shopping, and then we can sit and talk. Look at that small hotel down the street, Lachis or something, I can't see the sign – but I see a nice terrace in the sun."

He glanced at the hotel, then at the shop they stood in front of, then at her. "If you want, I can wait for you there…"

"Nice try." She dragged him into the shop.

She was here for revenge, but she couldn't find anything akin to the monstrosity of that elephant hat. The best she came up was a male t-shirt with _I'm pretty_ sign across the chest, in sparkling pink letters. His eyes _did_ glaze adorably.

That was only pink thing they had, but red seemed to be good as well. Though, when she chose one red shirt and put it on his chest to check the size, she changed her mind. Red looked great on him. No wonder, he had looked great even in a white shirt with small blue flowers that Sophie bought him.

"Okay, we'll buy this red one." She decided. "It even has a Japanese sign on the front. You'll like it. I hope it doesn't say wax, or soup, or something like that."

"It means wolf," he said.

"Really? Perfect. Days are warm, so you can wear short sleeves under the jacket." The more she looked at him with the red shirt, the more she liked what she saw. She found one more similarly red, but with a different Japanese sign, and put them all in the basket. "Okay, three will do. Do you need any-"

"That one doesn't have wolf, but-"

"Oh, look! A green one!" She reached for the shirt, but he intercepted her. "What? Your eyes will look green in reflection. I have to see-"

"Nope, enough." He put a few bills on the desk – she opened her mouth to protest, but remembered she had only credit cards that could be traced - put the shirts in her backpack, and dragged her out. "Next step – coffee on the hotel terrace, and then music. You can check out more t-shirts on the markets later."

Not only t-shirts. She started to plot how to get rid of him for a few minutes, to buy some hair gel. This short hair of his simply screamed for experiments. They walked slowly, hand in hand, and she tried to mimic his way of keeping the brim shading his face.

Unfortunately, she obviously had a 'plotting face', because he just glanced at her, and grinned. "What?"

Attacking him with the hair gel shouldn't be announced. "That's the first shirt I bought you, so take care of it. It's not for fighting in."

"Yeah, sure, if somebody jumps me, I'll ask for a time-out to change." His grin, though, was softer. "I'll try to keep it intact, okay? And if anybody tries to ruin it, I promise they will pay dearly."

For a normal couple, ruining the t-shirt meant spilling coffee on it. For them, ruining it meant blood and holes. She fought to keep her smile as happy as it had been just a few seconds ago, but she didn't have to bother. It seemed he was totally tuned in with every variation of her smiles, he read them all. As flattering as it was, it was also so not fair.

She used their stopping in front of the booth with souvenirs, and she jerked his sleeve. "I have a question."

He left the cup he was observing and turned to her.

"Why are you teaching me hitter- lessons, instead of grifter-lessons?"

He eyed her from head to toe. "Because you ain't grifter material."

"What do you mean? I'm surely not hitter material either. I just thought that all those security lessons, ducks and all that jazz are a little too… advanced?" She didn't quite know how to explain. "Grifting is easier, more natural, and it will probably get used more often than evading sudden attacks, or things like that."

"Maybe. But as I said, you can evade a sudden attack… but you can't grift. Period." He smiled at her frown. "It takes a special kind of person. You have to be bold to the point of insolence; a skillful liar, able to ad lib rubbish without blinking, a good actress who controls every muscle in your face, good at reading body language, and able to disappear into the role you're acting."

"But Parker is grifting, and I don't think she can do all that."

"You didn't see her first attempts. It takes a lot of practice to-"

"So, surely the sooner I start, the sooner I'll be better?" She smiled, and he sighed – she knew she had won this.

"The sooner you try, the sooner you'll give up," he said, and looked around them. They were standing among three booths, all full of souvenirs. "Okay, go to the third one; the seller is watching us already, he is asking himself why we moved away from his stand. You're a Food and Spices Inspector, a real nasty bitch. Make him show you his papers, and make him sweat a little."

She stared at him. "Why would I…" She bit her lip. "I'm in jeans and t-shirt, and I'm wearing a red cap… I don't look like an Insp-"

"But that's grifting. It doesn't matter what you wear; if you're able to hear your high heels clicking on the marble floor as if you're approaching a hall full of people ready to obey your every word, you could be in your underwear… and they wouldn't notice. It's in your head – your attitude."

"Oh? Okay…" She glanced at the old man who was her mark, put on her bitch face, straightened her shoulders, and marched toward him.

"Good day," she hardened her voice. "My name is Ann Still. I'm a Food and Spice Inspector, and I have to inspect your permits and documents." She used her authoritarian voice, her famous TV Producer voice, used mostly in stopping wild quarrels among her writers. Her stomach churned when she realized that the man was as old as her grandfather.

The man looked at her just like Eliot did, from head to toe. She shot him with a cold stare. She expected a frown under white, bushy eyebrows, and she got a gentle smile instead. "What did you say, sweetie?"

_Sweetie_. _What would Sophie do_? She had no idea. "I'm the Food and Spice Inspector," she used her best no-shit voice, low and bordering on cruel.

The man leaned in towards her a little, with interest, and tapped his ear with a shaky hand. "Mice Instructor?" he said. "Can you repeat the rest of it? Sorry, sweetie, I didn't catch your name… batteries in my hearing aid are weak."

She just stood there, perfectly aware that Eliot was now two steps behind her, watching this fiasco unfold – and that she couldn't, simply couldn't lie to an old, tired man. "Would you be so kind as to show me your papers?" she said louder, and smiled at him so he wouldn't think she was yelling.

"Why?" Old, blurry eyes glazed with sudden fear.

No way could she scare someone just to prove she could do it; it was rude and cruel. She darted one helpless glance at Eliot – _get me out of this_ – and he stepped in.

"Excuse us," he smiled at the man, and took her a few steps away.

"Okay, okay, don't say a word," she muttered, embarrassed to the bone. "I can't do it. Poor man. I should go and apologize…"

"Do you want to see the right way to do it?"

"No, no, definitely no, leave him alone," she squinted and quickly walked away, followed with his laugh.

He caught up with her after a few steps. "Okay, that wasn't fair," he said. "We can try later again, if you want, on something easier."

"Why?"

"Because you deserve a real chance to put your skills to the test, and because his booth had a double bottom."

She stopped and looked at him. A double bottom? What the hell was that supposed to mean? He offered nothing, waiting with that same maddening smile. A double bottom might mean he'd hid something there. Maybe he was selling more than just the souvenirs? Maybe something illegal? Jesus, he sent her to grift an old smuggler, with decades of experience on the streets. _Hearing aid my ass_.

"You sent me to grift a grifter?!" Her voice squeaked uncontrollably.

"Yep. But I won't tell you why." He pushed her cap lower, and tucked a few locks inside it. "Ready for that coffee, finally?"

"Yes, lead the way," she muttered under her breath. Was that because he knew she couldn't do it? Or because he thought she could? Or if she had done it, would that be a major test passed? And with this fail, is she proclaimed useless in grifting waters, or only ready to take baby steps? She sorted those questions in order by significance.

His phone let out one high pitched sound, and she had time to regain her composure while he took it to check it. It wasn't a call.

"What is it?" she asked when he only closed it and held it, as if not sure what to do with it.

"Hardison's message; nothing important, a few new details about the Washington job."

But she'd heard the pings from Hardison's messages while they drove; this was a different sound.

"Which reminds me… I forgot to tell you something," he continued before she could frown. "We talked while you slept. They grifted two more days from Nate, this time Sophie. Job is moved to Sunday morning."

She almost squeaked – _two more days!_ – but his nonchalance stopped her from jumping into his arms. He said it as if it was nothing; he twirled the phone between his fingers a couple of times before he put it back in his pocket. He looked absent for a moment; thinking about that job, rather than news of _two extra days!_ they had. Ashley Annabelle would despair in silence – she wasn't that sort.

"Do you want them, Eliot?"

He blinked, searching her face. "Want what? Whom?"

"Those two more days. If you think you should go and do that job instead, it's okay – I know why you do those things, and how important they are."

That completely cleared all traces of absence from his eyes. He closed the step that divided them, and took her face in his hands. "This is the last time you ask that – the last time you _think_ that," he whispered. His eyes locked on hers, and she blinked under the intensity. "I would be grateful for even one more hour. I've waited too long for you, and I can't, I won't-" He stopped, just watching her.

The memory came back in a flash; the first time he held her face like this, after the sniper attack; the same turmoil whirled in his eyes. But the reason for it was different now, she felt his struggle.

His thumb caressed her cheek, and he finally smiled; a strange, twisted smile. "I guess I can't break down all those walls at the same time," he whispered. "They have to come down one by one. But I'm done pretending that you ain't mine. I told you that I loved you six months ago, so please, don't ask me, ever again, whether I want two more days with you, or not."

The fire in his eyes took her breath away, and hundreds of words rushed through her mind. She spoke none; she couldn't choose. She just slipped closer, and buried her face in his shirt, clinging to him with all her strength.

It took her a few heartbeats before she realized she was hugging a solid rock. Oh, yes, he did hug her back; he kissed her hair and pulled her as close as he could, yet the arms that wrapped around her back were tensed like two coiled springs.

When she raised her head to check, she saw she was right – his eyes were scanning the crowd over her head.

She untangled herself from his arms. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I was just thinking…With two more days, some things have changed. We'll go back to the house, and I'll leave you alone for half an hour. I have to do something. I'll go back to the Chesterfield Inn and bring you your phone."

But he knew about those two extra days for some time. Why had he only just said it now, as if he'd just remembered? This message from Hardison wasn't about that, but… she felt her mind going slower when she remembered the different sound. It _wasn't_ one of Hardison's messages. Something else had happened.

"True," she said with some effort. "We'll have more time for everything, including more visits to the Festival. And more t-shirts."

He grinned and wrapped his arm around her waist. "Maybe I'll even let you buy me a green one."

She searched his eyes – bright, open, not a single shadow in them, yet his every move was precise and tensed. She could feel the heightened alertness that radiated around him, and coldness settled deep in her gut. He was grifting her now.

She let him take her hand; they turned around and went back home. _Home_.

She noticed he chose a different path, not the same one they'd come to town on.

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It took fifteen minutes, filled with people entering and reporting, before the tech guy raised his hand. "Three sales yesterday."

"Check every detail of the transactions and identities," Sterling said. "One of those three is a false identity. Min-Jung, would you take over from now?"

More time was lost, while she went through all the info she could find in all the databases. He went for another coffee, feeling the sleepless night in every single bone, in every thought. By the time he got back, she had something.

"Only three transactions yesterday. Three houses were sold: to a broker from Boston, a company from Boston, and an old lady from Florida." She pulled up all three accounts on three different screens as she spoke, with pictures and basic biographical information. "We are already checking that broker and all his business connections. The company in question is a big real-estates firm. Why would they buy a house in the woods around Brattleboro? I suggest you call that first Captain Detective, Bonnano, and tell him to send his men to swarm that place. It has a Boston address. It could be a good cover for Leverage Consulting and Associates."

"What about the old lady?"

"Kim Leske. Dead end. Retired teacher. Married, bunch of grandkids."

He watched the three images; grey middle-aged man in a suit, a company logo on a building, and cheerful old lady with her hair dyed with purple rinse. The first two were suspicious. They could be aliases for anybody from Leverage. But he smiled. Min-Jung narrowed her eyes, clearly watching him; Denise lowered her phone when she saw his smile, and came directly to them.

"Give me all you've got on that lady," he said.

"What? Why?"

"Just do what I said."

"Her accounts are all clean, we even checked her library card – she has a nasty taste for hot historical romances – and her Facebook profile is full of kittens, knitting and kids." Min-Jung typed as she spoke, opening her Facebook page. "Look, three days ago, she invited her friends to celebrate her new house. She even invited a few to come over next week. You said Spencer only yesterday decided to come to Boston, hence he couldn't know about it three days beforehand."

He just whirled his finger at the screen for her to continue. Captain Phillips came closer and stood by his side, watching with him.

"Here, a month ago, she debated with her friend about possible choices, and put a pictures of three houses online. And here," she said clicking down the timeline, "almost a year ago, I found a post where she whines about how she desperately wants a small cottage in rural Vermont, where she grew up. She isn't our target, don't waste our time on her – we have those other two to investigate, and it will take time."

"Maddox, call all your men," he said, watching the beautiful cottage. "We are going directly to this house."

"But why?!" Min-Jung asked.

"Because this is clean without any possible doubt. This person is as real as you or me; no sane cop would waste his time on her. This is perfect… Exactly what you would expect from the best hacker in the world. Alec Hardison doesn't make mistakes. But I know how they think."

Maddox pulled out his phone.

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Eliot had filled their walk back with a few stories about the cases they'd done, but Florence knew it was just to keep her occupied and stop her from thinking. She played along; she did want to hear everything about the team. She also noticed how carefully he cleansed all those stories of their names and places. He kept his arm around her waist and adjusted their pace to border on that of a slow walk. This time, that arm didn't caress; it was there so he could quickly push her aside.

Or, his paranoia virus simply went viral in her head, and she suffered from a full-on infection. He could only be nervous because of that feelings-spill back there; men were sometimes so upset by the small, normal things.

Yet, his lessons took root. _If something feels wrong, then it usually is wrong. Act at once, think later_. It was too easy to find soothing explanations that would lull her fear, but he had talked precisely about this, about ignoring the warning signs.

Her worry grew when they arrived home. He slowed down. His smiles became lazy and he radiated '_everything's fine'_ around him in waves. He even went into the kitchen first.

"Do you have something special on your mind for dinner? And don't say another sandwich, I'm cooking today," he said while rummaging through the fridge. "I think I bought everything we might need, but if you speak now, I can buy more things on my way back."

There was a serious possibility that he would deny everything if she asked him directly, but…

"Yes, a duck," she said. She sat back in the chair and took off her backpack.

He closed the door of the fridge and leant on the counter. "You're serious?"

"Deadly serious," she said. "Because that's the only way to say that if something walks like a duck, it _is_ a fucking duck, and not a grifting goose. Yes, please, bring me a dead duck so I can practice your lessons on the only true thing here!" She shut her mouth and thought for a second. "When I started talking, it sounded clear and logical, but I lost its message along the way."

He raised his eyebrows. "So, you don't, really, want duck for dinner?"

"You're so deeply in your hitter mode right now, that you aren't even aware that you sound as if you're asking that for real. Eliot… just tell me what's going on, for god's sake!"

His lazy smile didn't change a single bit. "What do you already know?"

"It's not time for testing and lessons, you-" She bit back a curse. It would always be that time, with him. And she accepted that, _wanted_ that. "It wasn't Hardison's message alert, it has a different sound. Since you checked your phone, you've been in hitter mode – total alertness, expecting an attack. I know how you behave when you sense danger is near. I also know you want to spare me from worrying, but I've already seen it, so there's no point in hiding it."

He came back to her, and sat in the other chair; still snake-like movements, still the same alertness in his eyes, though he smiled. "I wanted to check it out first, before telling you anything. It could be a false alarm."

"It?"

He searched the pockets of his trousers – the same model with many pockets that drove Sophie crazy – and put a few things on the table in front of her. She leaned in to see it: small black things. One looked like a button camera.

"Trackers, bugs, cameras," he said. "We always have these things around, and though I didn't bring earbuds or a real communication set, I knew I had those somewhere. When we left the Chesterfield Inn, I planted one bug in the Chrysler. More precisely, in the child seat. Do you know why there?"

"If someone searches the car, they would find them, but the child seats would be the last place to look at, especially being part of a rental car."

"Without Hardison, and his laptop and programs that bug is useless, I can't listen to it – yet, it's connected to my phone, I have its signal. It broadcasts white noise when it's in sleeping mode – and high pitch static when it senses something loud enough nearby to be recorded."

"And it pinged? Somebody broke into the Chrysler?"

He got up and crouched before her, resting his forearms on her knees. The knot in her throat eased a bit under that smile, so close, so reassuring. "Or used the keys I've left there to make it easier for them," he said. "That might be someone after me, who is closer than I thought – or it might only be Daryl, seizing an opportunity to sniff around. Either way, I'm going to check it out. And you'll stay here, secure, and without worrying. I'll be back soon, and I'll bring your phone. Okay?"

"Okay," she whispered. "But leave the phone there, just in case. Six month old ducks might be harmless, but I don't want to worry about that Sterling guy monitoring it, not now, on top of all this."

_Oh_. It was terrifying to watch all color draining from his face. For a moment he stayed motionless, just staring at her, then his face softened into a smile. But that smile, the emptiness of it, made her skin crawl.

"What Sterling guy?"

"James Sterling from Interpol. He was the one who approached me six months ago, and said he was after Nate and Leverage." The sinking feeling in her heart grew stronger. "I've told you about Interpol, and you said that six months is long enough to stop waiting for usual threats…"

He reached and took her hand, and his voice fell. "Sterling isn't a usual threat, Flo." He took a deep breath, and forced the smile onto his face. "He is… he doesn't give up. He is the man who waited, hidden inside the trunk of a car for five days for a suspect. The six month time frame doesn't apply to him."

"Did I make a mistake with not mentioning his name?" she whispered. "Is he still after me – after us?"

His smile changed in the blink of an eye – yet she knew, even before he shook his head in denial, that it _was_ mistake, a deadly one. "Of course not." He held her hand stronger. "You did nothing wrong. It's just a small complication, a slight change in our plans. One buffer isn't enough for him. I was sloppy. When dealing with Sterling, you need more than three behind you, because he is always three steps closer than you think. If he started at the Convention…" He trailed off.

_Three steps closer than you think_. And that meant that if he knew, if she told him on time, he would be prepared for him.

His eyes were slightly narrowed and he still held his gaze upon her, but she knew he wasn't watching her now. He was checking all his steps from the last two days, calculating, measuring, analyzing. She kept silent so as not to disturb that concentration, clutching at his hand. And her dread grew, because his eyes grew darker with every second that passed.

When his eyes finally moved, it wasn't towards her; he darted a glance at the window, at the cheerful sunshine that entered, and a dark smile danced on his lips.

She drew a shaky breath. "Y-you think he might be closer than you think, now, maybe even already in Brattleboro?"

He studied her with the same eyes she remembered from their last day before they parted, a love mingled with grief. Back when he believed he was losing her for good. "No," he said. "I think he is already _here_."

And as if answering to his call, a deafening, metallic voice from a speaker shook the windows around them, followed by the clacking noises of guns being locked and loaded.

"_Eliot Spencer, this is Captain Detective Maddox Phillips from the Vermont State Police. The house is surrounded, there's no way out. Release the hostage, and leave the house with your arms above your head_!"

She just stared at him, unable to draw a breath, to think, to move.

His face changed into that beautiful, deadly smile that always pulled every string in her heart – challenging her, impossible to resist.

He gently pried her fingers from his, turned her hand and kissed her palm. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

And then the rattlesnake uncoiled and stood up.

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	5. Chapter 5

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 5

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Eliot didn't have to look through the light curtains to know how many guns were aimed towards the house, or where they were positioned. He did it, nevertheless, because it was expected. His silhouette was for a moment visible; he moved the curtains to draw their attention and got back behind the wall.

"I want a helicopter, two million dollars in small bills, or I'll start killing hostages!" he yelled. "You have two hours!"

"_How many people do you have in there_?" A voice echoed through the speaker. He didn't respond. He had more important things to worry about, then stupid police procedures.

One of those things sat frozen still, turned sideways so he couldn't see her face.

If there was ever a time to control the blind rage that currently howled through his veins, it was now. For her. Fight or flight hammered in his heart, speeding him up, and it took a sheer will power to slow down, to calm his mind. His heart was a different matter – he couldn't control it. It hurt. But, he needed his mind to cooperate, to control his every move, every thought, if not feelings.

The voice continued to ask stupid questions. He could recite the same sentences in advance, it was the standard, well-used procedure; somebody clearly paid attention on their 'hostage situation course'. He monitored the voice and the tone of his words, but he came back to Florence.

He changed his mind in the middle of the step, and moved behind the kitchen counter.

She stirred when he opened the fridge door, but she kept her head turned towards the fireplace. He had seen her withdraw before, after effects of shell shock. This time it seemed to have hit harder.

"I can't cook anything complicated right now, or they will barge in sooner when they smell it." Damn, it took so much effort to sanitize his voice through his accumulated anger; to try and make it sound normal. His vocal cords almost hurt. "What do you think about a quick omelet with chopped ham and cheese?" He slowly took out a few eggs, careful not to scramble them right there and then, just by simply holding them. She said nothing.

The voice stopped talking after three cheap, amateurish attempts to provoke him into answering.

He watched her slouched shoulders, and the desperation snuck up on him unannounced. No matter how hard he tried, there was no escape from his past. There never would be. It caught up with him, finally, pulling her into this whirlwind with him – the one thing he dreaded the most.

Maybe this was a perfidious revenge for all the evil things he had done. Losing her once wasn't enough. She had to be given back to him, with promises of some better life, to wake up all his hopes and give him a glimpse of _that_ future – only for it to be taken away from him for a second time. This time for good.

After all, he knew he would lose Florence anyway, eventually, with time, even without this attack. Love simply wasn't enough – if this was even love on her part at all, and not merely infatuation and attraction. This was new, and exciting, romantic and hot, but it would wear out very soon. She would willingly accept all his paranoid security measures without question, but the feeling would soon accumulate. Each and every time they saw each other it would become more annoying, up to the point where she wouldn't be able to take it anymore.

But he never thought it would last only one day.

He returned the eggs to the fridge and closed the door. The need to run out and start killing all those bastards around the house was for the moment so strong that he had to put his hands into his pockets, and close his eyes to get himself together.

"Congratulations, you did it," she finally said. The accusation in her words hit him with more strength than he expected. He opened his eyes to face her; her frown; her dark eyes; _her_ anger. "I was this close to figuring out the entire sequence-" She snapped her fingers at him. "But no, you had to interrupt me with that fridge in the worst moment! For future information – never interrupt a writer while they're plotting." She got up – jumped to her feet – and went straight to him. He searched her eyes, the fire in them. "I've never written a hostage situation, but if I can imagine it, I can write it, and I think I know how we can play this out to give you more room for you to put your hitter knowledge into play." She put her hand on his upper arm and shook him a little. "You only need to get out of here, this is a kill box. Once you're outside, you'll think of something."

He had no idea what to say to her, stunned by the smile that dazzled across her face – gentle and fierce at the same time, but most of all encouraging.

She pinched his arm. "Are you with me? What are you thinking about?"

_Love and loss_.

"Your Convention," he said.

She glanced around them and raised her eyebrows. "Uhm, there are cops with guns all around us. Can you, I don't know, think about this a little?"

"_We need proof of life_!" The outside voice continued its litany.

"He needs proof of life," he said.

"He is not the only one, I need it too. You are behaving like a zombie."

Pretty accurate; her perception skills were getting better. He knew this fear. He even used it when needed. He could control it. But for the first time in his life, a _crippling_ fear flew through his veins, because of her being in this trap with him, surrounded by guns.

The protective lunatic in his mind didn't shake the bars on his cell anymore - he hung from the ceiling. This was too much even for him, his circuits burned under the pressure.

He pulled her closer into a tight hug, and breathed in her scent for a second. "Look scared," he whispered and picked her up. He brought her to the curtains and wrapped his arm around her neck. The cops could see her only for the blink of an eye, and even that was too much for his raging nerves. It would take only one, trigger happy, or too nervous, idiot to start shooting. The mere thought of her so close to all these guns made his blood boil.

He had to force himself to let her go when he brought her back to the chairs. He put her in the chair and sat on the armrest, blocking her from the windows.

She didn't let go of his hand. "You know the procedure? What will happen next?"

"They'll send for a negotiator. We'll have at least half an hour before they think about the next move, which is a SWAT team. It's not like they portray it in TV shows, Flo, where everything happens in fifteen minutes."

"And what's your plan?"

"Prolong this to give Sterling his chance to make a move, but not for too long. I don't want them getting nervous and itchy fingered out there."

Her eyes rolled skywards, yet she retained her firm hold of his hand with both of hers. He knew he had to find something for her to do, very soon, before her plotting resulted in some disastrous TV action move.

"That's not a plan," she said carefully.

"There is no plan, Flo. I'm unarmed and surrounded by a battalion. There's no grifting I could try right now. As soon as I see what's going on exactly, I'll surrender."

The eagerness in her eyes faded away. "Is that because of me?" Her voice fell, too; she leaned back a little. "What would you do if you were here alone? Aside from not being in this mess in the first place."

"I would do the exact same. When you're in an impossible circumstance, you must change the circumstances. I'll hand myself in, and wait for a better chance."

"But you could do it now! You have a hostage, you can force your way out, they wouldn't dare shoot. If we only-"

The dreadful thought of guns aiming anywhere near her painted his vision red. "No, stop with that."

"It's the afternoon – if you can delay this more, we can use the cover of night for that, or – have you called Nate? You have to call him, you can't do this alone! They'll need some time to get here, and if-"

He leaned in and kissed her, and her words silenced.

"No," he said.

Her eyes blurred with tears. "You can't just give up."

"I'd never give up. And now, concentrate. Tell me everything you remember about Sterling. Something is very odd here."

She drew in a shaky breath and proceeded to repeat every word from their encounter six months earlier, but he listened with only half of his attention. Sterling's words weren't important, he knew what he wanted.

"…and their relationship is clearly complicated. Friends and rivals, he had said that. Why is he after Leverage?"

"Because he values law above justice. Nate values justice above the law."

"So, is he an enemy?"

_Tough question_. He hesitated, trying to balance his own hatred with the clear facts. "That isn't a simple yes or no answer. His actions are hostile. He… he uses us in his attempts to bring us down, so you could say our value to him is what prevents him trying to finish us for good. He dances with Nate – their steps are always in sync, and in the end, both sides leave having gained something."

"And what's hostile in that?"

"There's a pattern to his behavior. He alternates between working with us, and trying to destroy us. He had us all caught in LA. Hardison blew our office to cover our tracks, and we had to retreat. In the end, after that Michelangelo mess, he ended up as the vice president of IYS. The Job after that, another cooperation. We worked together when Nate's ex-wife was in trouble. That went well, and he jumped another step up, joining Interpol with our results. Our next encounter, another direct attack. He caught us all, and Nate had to give himself up to save us from jail, or worse. It was Sterling's first case for Interpol, and a great success. International arms dealer and corrupt mayor, all in one catch. Again, another step up using the work we did. The last time, in Dubai, he used us to rescue his daughter, masking it with Kazakhstani terrorists. That time we worked together again, and if we follow the pattern, now is his time for catching us and taking us down. I'm not even sure if he is aware of that… or maybe it is Nate's actions and abilities that turn some of his actions into collaborations."

"So, why don't you call Nate now?"

"Because in a hostage situation, land lines are cut off and all cell communications are blocked. My phone is dead. I can't contact anybody. Even if I could, I won't do it. I've told you that something is odd. And it started at your Convention."

"What? You said there had been extra surveillance, but I didn't see anything out of the ordinary."

"All the hostesses were police. You might skip past a normal police officers without even knowing they were there, but this is one of Sterling's actions. People don't slip through his nets, Flo. You were allowed to leave, and I don't know why."

"So I could lead them to you?"

"But I was already there. That Convention was the perfect place to catch me unprepared. Closed off space, mass of people, police among them…. He knows me. He knows I wouldn't risk shooting near you, or endangering innocent bystanders. If they surrounded me there, I would have gone freely. Instead of that, he let you go – let us go – only to follow us across the country, to catch us later. He probably put some tracking device on you, or bugged your phone, but it doesn't matter. Letting us go was illogical, and there's something more to it."

"Hostesses," she whispered. "Min-Jung gave me a Samsung gift box. With tablet."

He knew why that thought brought more tears to her eyes. "So what? We left it behind. He is not here because of that tablet. He would be here anyway. You know what Parker calls him? _Evil Nate_. Nate would have found us; hell, Nate did that for a living, in case you didn't know. The two of them were the best investigators in their line of work, and Sterling now has Interpol backing him. He is, more or less, unstoppable now."

She sighed and got up, but he grabbed her in an instant. "Sit. No walking across the room, and avoid the eye lines from the windows."

Curling up in the chair, she rested her elbow on his thigh. "Okay. See, no asking _why_. But, there's one thing you're forgetting here – I'm a hostage. You can release me, as a show of good will. I will confirm you have more people in here so they won't attack, and I can go and find a phone. I can call Nate, and they could be here by morning."

"Sterling knows you ain't a hostage, you won't be allowed to do anything. Sterling also knows I don't have any more hostages, and his silence is most disturbing. I'm waiting to see his moves before I decide anything. Yet, there's one thing I know for sure – he is expecting me to call Nate, to get him here. And doing the one thing that James Sterling wants is something I will never do, no matter what happens to me. We managed to slip under his radar for six months. It has to stay that way."

"But you can beat him." The utter trust in her eyes made him smile. "You can grift your way out of this."

"No. I can't grift Sterling. He is way out of my league."

She choked out a sob, and wiped her eyes with an angry swipe. "That's bullshit! You can't give up! They'll take you away – no, I won't let them-"

"Flo." He reached out with his hand and caressed the dimple on her cheek, and she stopped talking. "I can't outsmart _Sterling_," he said with a smile. "But he is not alone out there. And I'm good at waiting."

She covered his hand with hers, pressing it to her face. Trust and fear, love and pain – he saw them all whirling in her eyes, wrapped in the smile she sent him.

"You _will_ think of something," she whispered finally, and rested her cheek on his thigh. He finger combed her curls, looking towards the windows.

Yeah, he would. And that scared him the most.

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"… and these are the final numbers for the orphanage," Nate finished explaining, and threw two piles of papers onto the desk, one for Parker, one for Sophie. "The Castelman Security part is also-" Hardison's arrival interrupted his sentence; the hacker hurried from the back room where he was busy with phone calls.

"I found out how to collect more suppliers." Hardison grabbed the remote and removed the blueprint of the Washington vault, putting the city map on all screens.

"This doesn't look like Washington," Nate said.

"It's Portland." Hardison put a red flag in the middle of the town, and zoomed in. "This is the only restaurant in town that has oca on the menu. I hacked their accounts, and found all their suppliers."

"You _hacked_ the restaurant? I thought you were working on Castleman-"

Hardison waved his hand around. "That's done, Castleman is covered. But look at this-"

"Are you planning a heist, Hardison?" Parker asked. She leaned in a little, staring at the map. "I've never robbed a restaurant. It could be fun."

Nate exchanged a glance with Sophie. "No, we aren't robbing the restaurant. Why don't you just tell Eliot what happened with the oca supplies, and ask him what to do?"

"I actually tried," Hardison said. "I called him a moment ago, but his phone is turned off. I guess he doesn't want any more interruptions, the Jacuzzi one was enough."

"He could just not answer the phone," Nate said. "We are annoying him, yet, in spite of that, he wouldn't cut off his only means of communication."

"Maybe they're out of cell reception, somewhere in those woods," Sophie said.

"Maybe. Keep an eye on that, Hardison, and tell me when he is back in range."

"Deal. In the meantime, here's the list of suppliers I found-"

"Nope. The oca can wait." Nate sent a bunch of papers in the hacker's direction. "Here's the list of Castelman accounts. Knock yourself out."

Hardison grumbled under his breath, but took it, yet Nate paid no attention to him. He watched Parker; the thief's head was slightly tilted, and she stared at the blueprint of the restaurant with disturbing concentration, memorizing all details.

He quickly turned the blueprint off, and decided to keep an eye on them for the rest of the day.

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"This is unacceptable."

James Sterling raised his head to Min-Jung and Denise. The pair stood before his log; he chose one fallen tree to sit on it, and spread all his papers out around him in branches, along with three coffee cups. One glance around showed him there were no cops near enough to hear them.

"What, exactly?" he asked.

Min-Jung waved her hand to the swarm of police around the house. State Police, Brattleboro City Police, and an ever growing bunch of fair visitors and locals, drawn near with the prospect of a live firefight and chase. It seemed that the Fair moved up here in the hills; the next thing they could expect were tents and barbecues behind the police line.

"It takes only one word from you, and this will all be over," she said. "If you tell Maddox he is unarmed, the Captain will send his men inside and take him out in a second. Why are you prolonging this?"

He eyed their dark eyes and stiff postures. "And why are you both so upset about it?" he asked softly. " Even better… why are only the two of you upset, and not my other agents?"

"They are, and we speak in their name, too," Denise said. "The cops don't know they have an unarmed man and his girlfriend, alone – they think they have the classic desperate criminal who won't hesitate to kill, with several hostages - and every minute increases the danger for Florence McCoy. And for Spencer."

"You think so?" he tilted his head toward the nearest bunch of State police; dark glasses, headaches and flirting with girls in the crowd, while they paraded on their side of yellow do-not-cross line, waving with their guns. "These men do not pose a danger for Spencer. I do. And I'm prolonging this intentionally, yes. I'm letting Maddox play out all his moves; the Captain has to think he is in charge of the operation. I give him five minutes, no more, before he realizes he is also the one who is responsible for the outcome. I checked his file; he's never led a hostage rescue before. Spencer won't respond to this bullshit he is pouring out at him, and that's it. Dead end."

"And he'll be happy to accept any help that you can offer?" Min-Jung asked. She sat next to him on the log; Denise still stood in the same official stand. The blondes' eyes were still hard on him.

"I'll go into the house as a negotiator." He nodded. "A thing I'm not especially fond of, if we gauge how my last encounter with Spencer ended. Yet, even getting punched is acceptable in this case. I will, in the end, be the one who will get him out of this, under my terms, in my hands – if he doesn't make some stupid move and get himself killed." He thought for the second, watching a new cab arriving. It stopped on the barricade on the road, and cops blocked his view.

It was true that Nate Ford would be without protection if his hitter got killed now, and that Leverage would be much easier pray… yet, it wouldn't help with his finding them. Hardison would probably very soon find out about this operation and Spencer's eventual death, and they would come here to see what happened, so he could wait for them here. With Spencer dead, and all done, making this look like he was helping him would be much harder. "You're right," he said. "This isn't acceptable. Min-Jung, you'll tell Maddox we just got new info, that Spencer is unarmed. Tell him to prepare stun grenades and rubber bullets - but not yet. They would start immediately, and I need to get inside first, to talk to him."

Their smiles danced. Damn, if they weren't only chosen for this operation, he would really consider that Spencer fucked his entire team just for revenge for drugging him back in Dubai.

The policemen around the cab cleared out, and now he could see why. Amanda marched through the crowd, followed with sighs, her dark chocolate skin glistening in the sun like an onyx.

"Somebody could've told me you left Brattleboro," she muttered. "Here's your box, and their things from the bag." She pushed the things in his hands and stared him down. "I've locked everything and Claire is keeping an eye on the room, but I have to get back."

"No, you'll stay here, we've cornered him. Call Claire to come, too, I'll need you all very soon. For now, join the others in tactical vehicle, and monitor everything."

She rolled her eyes and marched away.

Ah, the joys of working with only women.

Denise and Min-Jung stayed, glancing at the box with interest which would be normal, even welcomed for him any other day, but not now. He would've, also, given them the tablet and Florence's phone to extract all data they found useful – still, not now. He would do it himself before he gave them a chance to tamper with them.

He made a mental note to take one laptop from the tactical vehicle and pull up all their phones, to check their call records. Maybe he didn't need to wait for Spencer to contact Nate Ford – maybe the two of them had already.

Which, in a long term, wouldn't be bad – he would lose two agents, but this shit would be solved much faster.

He opened a box. "What's this?" He pulled out a plastic bazooka and cringed.

"That was the last thing Florence received before she disappeared in the Convention," Min-Jung said. "Probably a gift from Spencer, or some sort of a sign."

"And you were planning to tell me that…when?" He put the box on the ground, and observed the weapon for a few seconds. "Interesting." He felt his face spreading into a smile. "Maybe I'll get what I want without being beaten senseless. Go tell Maddox to turn off the phone jammer."

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Eliot stood by one of the windows that looked out at the garden, monitoring activities around the house. Florence wasn't sure whether she should tell him to be careful, or simply keep quiet. The police couldn't see inside the house. The power was cut off so it was darker inside, and they could see nothing more than a shadow.

She kept herself busy, going to and fro, packing and repacking her backpack, even making another sandwich.

Though it seemed Eliot's attention was turned outside, he followed her every move.

She brought him the sandwich. "You know, I can tell where the cops are without looking outside, just by your breathing. You hold your breath every time I step into the possible line of fire. I could draw a map of trajectory lines by now."

He opened his sandwich with the caution of a man disarming a nuclear war-head, and she almost laughed, in spite of the knot that set in her throat. Laughter died on her lips when she thought about their plans for today. She would give anything if they could only chop onions together.

All her thoughts in the last fifteen minutes were a cause for tears, and Ashley Annabelle was silent. This was too much even for a tragic romance heroine. There was no greater drama she could cause now.

He carefully put the sandwich aside, as if it might jump and bite him. "Repeat the number once more," he said.

She sighed and recited Nate's number.

"Use it only if it's really necessary, and if you're sure you're not being tracked or followed. Burner phone only – and destroy it after calling. It would be best if you wait at least a month before contact."

All of this was exactly as he had told her already, but the last sentence was new. She stared at him, unable to formulate her fears.

She didn't have to. "It's for worst case scenario only," he said. "I don't plan to be locked up or killed, but nevertheless… if you stay alone, you'll need them."

"No, I would not need them." Her voice sounded harsh, a sound going through too clenched throat. "I need you, only you. They can come in a package – they do – but without you, they are, they aren't… just stop, don't scare me further."

"We don't know whether you'll walk out of this clean or not."

"We do. And even if we don't, who cares?"

"I do. Go with the hostage story. Sterling would know, but he won't say anything - you won't be interesting to him after…" He must've seen her twitch, because he changed the course of the sentence. "…The friend of your neighbor contacted you and asked you to go with him for a drink, and grabbed you when he realized Interpol was after him. You'll make a statement, and be free to go."

She opened her mouth to tell him that was out of question, but changed her mind. Instead of thinking about how to get himself out of this, he was troubled with her career and reputation. "Okay, I'll do it," she said. "But keep in mind one thing – even if they find out I was here willingly, there's no law against it. I committed no crime, and I can go freely, unless I get a chance to put my hands around his short neck and…" She cleared her throat and stopped, but it was worth it – his eyes smiled. "Besides, if I'm proclaimed to be the lover of the man who is on the Most Wanted list, that means a million new curious people watching Magnificent Seven. I win either way."

There was only one thing she wanted to win, and it was slipping through her fingers as she watched him. "I've waited for you six months," she whispered. "I can wait more if I have to. Use any chance you see, escape and disappear. Hide, cover your tracks, I'll wait. A month, six months, a year… I don't care. Just stay alive, and come back to me."

He took her hand and kissed her. "Yes, Ma'am." His raspy drawl was colored with a smile.

She smiled back and slid into his arms.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a thought that this was the last time she would feel his arms around her took a root. She chased it away, directed her mind to thinking about everything he was capable of, remembering everything she witnessed him doing. Impossible things.

She didn't kiss him. She only listened to his heartbeat, and tried not to think about anything else that surrounded them. The bubble she needed now was a bulletproof one, to wrap them both up.

_Bubbles burst. They always do_.

Eliot's phone rang, and her inward wail echoed through the shards.

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"The SWAT team is ready," Maddox said. "Are you completely sure the suspect is unarmed?"

"He doesn't have any fire arms, yes, I'm sure. He might have a holster with two knives. But don't think of him as of one of your usual suspects – that man is walking weapon. Proceed with extreme caution, and don't let him do anything. Have you stopped jamming his signal?"

"Yeah, you can call him."

Sterling entered the number from the back-side of the bazooka, but didn't press dial. He observed the battlefield to be.

Maddox made sure that the SWAT team was invisible from the house; Eliot could see only regular police around. In that short time, the crowd had multiplied by five. He saw Denise near the do-not-cross line, using her warmest smiles to keep at bay a group of locals, eager to join the fight. Even Vermont had its hillbillies; they all wore dark and green tones, all prepared for a man hunt through the woods.

"I'll keep him occupied," he said to Maddox. "Attack only when I give you the sign, not before."

The Captain nodded, and Sterling hit dial.

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"Go sit in the chair, and pull the other one close to you," Eliot told Florence when the phone rang. She opened her mouth to say something – probably to ask _why_ \- but gave up, and did what he told her.

He took the phone and moved closer to the kitchen counter, putting a solid distance between them.

"Hello, Spencer."

That soft, sleazy voice scraped along his nerves, and he bared his teeth in a smile he was glad Florence couldn't see. Or maybe she could – she turned the backrest to the windows, and peered over it, with her elbows resting on it. He flashed her a quick reassuring smile.

He put him on speakerphone, and gave Florence a sign to keep silent.

"You finally crawled out from under your rock, Sterling," he said. "I could feel the trail of slime you left behind you."

"Charming as usual. So, Spencer, in the words of your people: what's up, ya'll? I see you put yourself in a nice little trouble."

"Cut the crap. What do you want?"

"To settle a score from Dubai."

Well, this was an unexpected twist. He calmed down instantly, all his attention focused on the nuances in the bastard's voice. The problem was, Sterling always sounded as though he was lying, or at least hiding the better part of his pitch.

"I don't have time for your games, spit it out!" He noticed Florence raised her eyebrows at his impatient, gruff words – he raised his hand to keep her quiet. He knew how to talk with Sterling, how to hide what he really thought.

"Ah, but you have time, didn't you notice? You aren't going anywhere, so relax and listen. This is just a happy chance that I'm here. We were on that Convention doing an investigation unconnected with your lovely lady; imagine my surprise when I realized that I witnessed your reunion. How romantic." Sterling's laugh could make everything seem dirty, but this time he really put some effort into it. He was glad he didn't hold the phone, or it might crush in his grip.

"I couldn't pass on such an opportunity, so we did everything possible to follow you. Unfortunately, my plans for catching you were obstructed. Vermont State Police was ready for you, they were here first. I did decide to tag along, and that was good, because it gives me a chance for, as I said, settling the score. I don't want you on my back because of that little dispute." Sterling paused for a moment, and Eliot did nothing to fill that silence.

"Sorry if I'm talking too complicated, I'll try to keep it simple: I am here to help you. Not because I like you, god forbid – but because you'll owe me one. Now growl once if you understand what I'm offering."

Eliot watched Florence; her eyes were huge, and full of anger. He shook his head when she moved as if ready to come to him. He needed her there; deep chair was a good cover.

"I see," he drawled slowly. "This is your way of sayin': I'm too scared to come into the house to negotiate, so I'm being cocky from a safe distance?"

"How do you feel, knowing she is with you on the wrong side of so many guns?" The bastard's voice became all melodic, soft tones sliding like molasses. "How do you feel, knowing that her life is in the hands of some hangover, trigger happy village cop yearning to test himself in his first gunfight?"

Shit, that hit close to home; his words woke up the crippling fear he had managed to suppress. He would do anything to get her out of here safe and sound – and Sterling knew that.

"Police don't know I have your number; this is between you and me. I can't stop them if they decide to attack, but I can give you three minutes with an open line. Call your Robin Hood cavalry and pray they get here on time, because my hands are tied. I can't do anything else. Your freaks might."

"Three minutes with a phone is equal to a drugged coffee?"

"Play nicely, Spencer. I surely try to. Seeing you die under a barrage fire would make my little black heart sing in joy, but I'm opportunist. It's better if you live in debt, knowing you will have to pay it off one day. And you will, trust me. Three minutes, counting… now."

A click on the line ended the call.

"I'm not sure if I hate his guts, or like him," Florence said. "This, in spite of his snarkiness, sounds almost…fair."

"Fair?" he slowly repeated. "Don't use that word in the same sentence with Sterling, Flo." He lowered his gaze to the phone, and started counting. He had enough time to go to her – and he wanted that more than anything – but he stood by the kitchen counter nevertheless.

She didn't try to leave the chair; he felt her confusion in the weary look that lay upon him.

"You're wasting time," she said after a few seconds of his immobility. "He might not be able to keep the line open all three minutes. Call Nate while you still can."

"Don't buy his bullshit. Sterling was at your Convention only because of you, after me, and this mess is entirely his doing. But he always does two things – he keeps a door open, and collects the prize. He is doing it right now, again. He is helping me, so I won't kill him, and at the same time he will have me caught, in his hands."

"But…"

"No, Flo, I won't call Nate – because my Cavalry would face a firing squad waiting for them. He _wants_ Nate here. He won't have him." He took the phone and pulled out the SIM card, breaking it in two. "This phone is another thing he wants. With their numbers, he can locate them. That's why I told you to memorize the number. No, stay there! Don't leave the chair. At the first sound at the door and windows, curl into the chair and cover your head. And don't be afraid, whatever happens."

For a moment, she looked like she would tell him to go to hell; she made one involuntary move, in helpless anger, than crumpled back. "Eliot, I have to be near you!" A fear in her voice shot through him in painful ripples. "They won't shoot if your hostage is-"

"They won't shoot. They can monitor my signal, and he just realized I disabled the phone without calling Nate – if they kill me, he has nothing. He'll pull another one of his 'helping cards' again. Do you remember what I told you when you asked me in the Chesterfield Inn if I was still unarmed?"

"No, I don't…what does it have to-"

"I've told you that everything around me is a weapon. I can't call my Cavalry… so I'll have to use his."

A clang on the porch was the first sign – both windows shattered, and shards flew all around. Shards and grenades.

"Get down!" He only had time to yell that, before blinding light erased everything around him in a hot, white flash. A thundering explosion, a double one, almost swept him off his feet. He staggered back, blind and deaf.

He couldn't see her. Stun grenades were designed to just incapacitate, not hurt or kill, and the chair should've protected her from the blast – but he _couldn't see her_, couldn't go to her. The explosions messed up his balance and spun him around. Smoke burned his eyes and lungs.

Effects from a stun grenade lasted five seconds, he knew that – he also knew what he would see when the darkness cleared out.

They broke through the door when they heard explosions; he faced blurry, black shapes that yelled words he still couldn't hear.

But now he could hear her scream. Black shadows were around the chair, grabby hands all around her, pulling her out. He _knew_ they were protecting her, taking her to safety – but that rational thought couldn't stop him, couldn't penetrate the disorientation.

He started.

They fired.

The painful hits of rubber bullets would make him laugh, not make him stop, but they did one useful thing – returned him to the situation, cleared his head a little. Reminded him of what he had to do. Instead of going through them, he forced himself to stop, to stagger back and retreat under the hail of bullets, through the smoke, away from her. He stopped only when all the black shapes that fired were turned away from her, and considered falling down.

He didn't have to bother about that. They aimed at his chest to stop him, and at his legs to take him down, but one bullet went too high. At first he thought it only went through his hair, but the exploding pain darkened everything once more. He felt himself flying backwards, and the sounds disappeared again.

_Perfect_, was his last thought before he sank into the smoke, and his head hit the floor.

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The bastards wrapped her into a blanket; a huge, mile long thing that swallowed her whole, and smelled like machine oil. She coughed her lungs out, and cried, and cursed, yet she couldn't move; her arms were tangled into that damn thing.

Black clad people carried her out and put her on the wooden chair in the garden. She tried to decipher where the hell that chair came from, and failed.

Heavy boots ploughed their garden. It _was_ their garden. It was _their_ curtains they tore down, _their_ windows they shattered.

She couldn't stop crying.

Centuries later, while everything slid past her slowly, they led him out. Dragged him out, between two black SWAT shapes. His hands were handcuffed in front of him; chained around his ankles. He hung from their hands as if dead. A scream died on her lips when she saw his hair soaked in blood, wet whips dripping red from his lowered head.

Somebody brought the stretcher; paramedics gathered around him, hiding him from her sight, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move-

"Oh, rubber bullets are such a nuisance," she heard Sterling's voice behind her, over her shoulder, and she turned around to see him. He watched Eliot with a nasty smirk on his face. "How does it feel, Spencer?" he asked louder.

"You," she croaked at him. _I'm gonna kill you_. She untangled from the blanket and stood up; dizziness hadn't cleared completely, and she swayed.

"Easy, Mrs. McCoy." He held her upper arm, steadying her – he even had the guts to sound soothing and nice. _Soothing and nice. Play along. Kill him later_.

"W-would you be so kind, as t-to give me a minute with him?" She didn't have to fake her tears.

He frowned, watching her for a second, before he waved his hand for the paramedics to clear out. "A minute," he said, turning his back to her, to them.

One minute. She had to squeeze an entire lifetime into just one minute.

Love wasn't supposed to hurt this much. She fell to her knees beside him. A nasty gash ran from his eyebrow, disappearing in the hairline; they had torn his shirt so she could already see purple bruises where the bullets had hit him. And he looked unconscious.

"Eliot," she whispered, leaning closer to him.

He didn't open his eyes, but he moved. His hands felt her face, and pulled her closer. The handcuffs clanged, and she cursed her useless bracelet, cursed all this shit that crashed on them. She dug her face into his neck, listening to his ragged, shattered breathing, and a panic paralyzed her.

"Say anything – tell me you hear me, Eliot, please…"

"Why?"

She froze at first, then tried to straightened up to see his face, but his arms held her close.

"See now how it feels when I'm trying to be serious, and you blurt _why_ out of nowhere, huh? It's mind stopping shit." Only then did she realize he didn't have trouble breathing; he was trying not to laugh.

"What…" she whispered; her mind was too shaken to think clearly.

"And now you also see what a man is capable of doing just to run away from gross food." His whisper caressed her ear. "I've told you, but you ain't been listening… if it walks like a Cavalry, if it shoots like a Cavalry-"

She blinked. "You let them do this – you wanted them to barge in?"

"And to lead me out of the house. Stun grenades are standard – though the rubber bullets were a bit of a surprise, but this scrape over my forehead is perfect. It looks awful, it even fooled you. From now on, it's piece of cake, I won't have much trouble with the next steps. Don't move, darling. One minute is short." He held her tighter and she wrapped herself around him, guarding his face from the curious eyes around them.

"You ain't hurt badly?" she whispered. She felt his face as if she were blind, to keep it in her mind, to remember it, and his blood was again on her fingers. Yet she stopped her tears, for him – she wanted to say goodbye with a smile.

"Nope, just a nasty hit. And the bruises will be spectacular."

And she won't be there to see them. She was now too clear a trail to him, he couldn't risk contacting her for who knows how long, they would be waiting for him – but she smiled. "Go, and don't look back. When it's safe for you, you'll know where to find me. I'll wait."

"Now freak out. Just imagine I arranged all this with Sterling just to save myself from eating your sandwiches."

She chuckled, but tears choked her. "Hold your breath," she whispered and kissed him.

When she straightened up, she did that in a quick, panicked jump. "Paramedics! He isn't breathing!"

And that was enough. They rushed again around him, checking his breathing, pulse, eyes, pulling out an oxygen pump. "Clear the way!" Shouts chased the bystanders, and in just a couple of seconds, his stretcher was pushed inside the ambulance.

Sterling only then had time to close those few steps towards her; he was talking with other cops nearby, giving them their privacy.

She watched the rotating lights taking him away, and her soul ached. She turned around when it vanished after a bend in the road.

Then she saw Sterling's eyes narrowing while he followed the ambulance disappearing downhill; his teeth bared in an angry smile. "That son of a bi-"

She hurried to him before he could raise his hand to call Maddox and his SWAT team.

"Sterling!" she stopped before him. "You know I was just moments ago stunned by a grenade? That I'm in shock, going through exceptional emotional trauma after a violent attack, and not responsible for my actions?"

"Yes, Mrs. McCoy." He tore his eyes from the ambulance. "That was an unfortunate turn of events. I'm sure you'll-"

"Good. Stay there, don't move."

She was too weak to punch him; she would only hurt her fist. She turned around and took her chair.

"Will you be so kind to turn to the left a little, and take a look at the house?" she smiled at him as brilliantly as she could.

Impatience grew stronger on his face – he waved to Maddox first, pointing after the ambulance, then looked in the given direction. "Yes, in a second, Mrs. McCoy. What's so important with that house that-"

"Nothing," she said, as she swung the chair with all her strength and slammed it at his head and shoulder. The hit sent him five steps flying; he landed with a painful thud.

Maddox's curses flew to her, the Captain ran to them. But she still had time to close the distance between them and lean over him.

They could take her away; she didn't care. They already took everything she wanted.

She let them take _him_ away.

"Oh, the concussion is such a nuisance," she sang with his accent, watching his blurred, unfocused eyes. "How does it feel, Sterling?"

She let him use her.

He blinked and tried to speak, but she kneeled closer to him, locking his eyes with hers.

She let him destroy _their_ garden.

"Watch your back, Sterling, better than you did just now," she breathed. "'Cause that's how your life is going to be from now on – constant watching over your shoulder. He will disappear, and take his time, and let you wait." She leaned closer, until her lips almost touched his face, and whispered, "He is after you now. You will never be safe again."

She let him destroy her chance for love.

She raised her hand, her fingers still red with Eliot's blood, and touched his forehead. A red mark glistened between his eyes. "Target," she whispered, "locked on."

She was done with letting people ruining her life.

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	6. Chapter 6

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 6

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I have a few explanations for this chapter.

The main reason I fretted about writing this story wasn't the romance, it was Sterling.

I try to write canon stories. I also try to implement them into ongoing seasons. This whole thing with Florence is made this way so the real season 5 of Leverage could go as it was. Six months without her, and now she comes again, right before The Rundown Job. Eliot will keep her hidden and secret not because he is paranoid, but because there's no Florence in the remaining episodes of Season 5. I even know how to deal with that redhead chick in The Low Low Price Job – the episode that follows The Rundown Job (so it's shortly after SNAFU and Redhead Twins).

So, Sterling… the main problem with that bastard is that he never loses. In Leverage, he is a match for Nate, they are equal. Eliot Spencer in Leverage isn't on their level. He isn't written to be, though Rogers developed his character and showed his potential in glimpses. Each and every episode with Sterling follows the same pattern, and they all end up the same – he is one step higher than he had been before that particular job with them.

I could easily write Eliot outsmarting Sterling, but it wouldn't be in character. Eliot can't WIN against Sterling. Period.

And that fact put me in immense trouble, because I had to structure the story with a fight, nasty trouble and a duel, and keep them all in their roles. This story has to finish like all the others with Sterling – Leverage (in this case only Eliot) winning the case in spite of Sterling, and Sterling getting what he wanted.

Half of the episodes with Sterling are him against them openly, and the other half is him with them.

I didn't start writing this story until I had romance part outlined completely, and more important, until I had this plot twist with Sterling completed. You'll see what I mean when you read the chapter.

After this, just like Eliot told Florence, we have the circumstances changed – the game is going into more "Leverage" waters now.

Don't forget one important thing – only four days after this chapter, Sterling joins Nate and Sophie in The Frame Up Job, and tells them to call him if they want to work with him, that he is hiring. And I said I'm implementing these stories into actual seasons, so that means that Sterling – after this open attack on Eliot – still CAN say that to Nate.

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"…and tell them to keep me informed!" Sterling said. "I want their every move reported, no delays!"

Amanda and Denise nodded, quickly going to Maddox, who gesticulated to his remaining men. The captain had already sent his SWAT team after the ambulance, and now he was clearing the perimeter of locals and Brattleboro City Police.

"The rest of you," Sterling said to his agents. "In the house. We'll make headquarters there while we wait. Take all the equipment from the tactical vehicle."

"What about her?" Min-Jung motioned to Florence McCoy. Two female detectives were taking her statement. "Should we let her go? We have nothing against her. If you want her arrested, we can think of something, but it won't hold water for long."

"No, I want her here, not in city jail. I have a better use for her."

"We could follow the chase after the ambulance," Min-Jung said carefully. "Be close when they get him. Isn't that what you want?"

He turned his face from her, down the hill that went to the Connecticut River, then looked at the hills that surrounded them. Hills, woods, wilderness, spreading miles and miles. "He's gone. He'll disappear and cover his tracks, walk them through these woods like children. They won't catch him. Forget it. The only thing we can…" He trailed off, and took a few steps closer to the garden fence. She followed him.

"Call Maddox. We can't catch him, but we can make sure he'll lose at least two days, chased around and away from civilization, before he's able to contact anybody."

"What?! But you _want_ him to call Nate Ford!"

"If he calls Nate Ford now, it would be confirmation that he escaped, and that he isn't in immediate danger. Spencer would tell him to lay low, and not come here. They would scatter. No, Min-Jung…" A movement from the left drew his attention – Maddox was waving to him.

"I have the hospital operator here, if you want to talk with the ambulance drivers," the captain said.

"In a minute, Captain. I'll need you in the house after-"

Maddox reached to his vest, to his communication set that hung there, and clicked it. "They what?" He listened for a few seconds, then turned again to them. "Brattleboro hospital confirms they've lost contact with their ambulance."

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He _hated_ punching cops, but the two SWAT guards sitting by his stretcher didn't seem eager to just let him go.

With both of his hands cuffed in front of him, Eliot had very few possible solutions. The two paramedics who were literally choking him with oxygen were as bad targets as the cops. The driver, too.

He just lay there with his eyes closed, answering their questions with nonsense, faking severe disorientation, trying to come up with an escape plan that wouldn't involve beating his guards.

A chirp of the communication set ran over the medical chirping around him, and one SWAT cop answered his call.

"They said we had to be careful," the cop said. "That you'll try to escape. One vehicle was sent after us to escort us to the hospital." The cop nudged Eliot's foot with his knee. "C'mon, show us your moves. What are you going to do, huh? Are you a ninja?"

The other cop snickered.

"I won't do anything," Eliot whispered, and raised his hands, pointing at the window on the back door. "But they might."

There was a car behind them, probably one of the spectators who saw the show was over and was heading home. The cops turned their heads in the given direction. He waited.

The first cop pressed the button of the comm set attached on his bulletproof vest. "We have a suspicious vehicle on our tail, red pick-up… I can't see the plate, wait a sec…" He got up and took a step closer to the window. "Never mind, you'll be behind us soon, pull him over."

Eliot waited for two things: the click of the ended call, and the cop caught mid-step, in turning back to him. They happened at the same time.

He bent his knees and hit the cop with both feet, sending him into the other cop. His hands pushed away the first paramedic, who fell into the other. Eliot was on his feet in the next second.

He hated this. Immensely.

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"I can't contact my cops in the ambulance," Maddox said when they all gathered in the main room of the house. The captain was frantically growling orders into his comm. His people went in and out; city police lingered there as well.

The only calm person sat on the kitchen counter. Florence McCoy swayed her feet and watched them all with a polite interest, still wrapped in the blanket. Sterling put a white cloth on his cheek and returned her smile with bared teeth. Denise had soaked the cloth in cold water, yet a bruise was already forming.

He snapped his fingers and Denise brought him a huge map of the county, which he'd asked for. He pinned it on the wooden wall near the fireplace.

"GPS locator in ambulance?" he asked, and Maddox came to him.

"Contact was lost here," the captain pointed at the spot. "From there, he had three options, three roads he could take. One to Brattleboro; one alongside the river, eventually crossing it here, and going into New Hampshire; and the third one, the road from Brattleboro to Townshend. Seventeen miles through the forest with nothing around it, only hills and woods. No cameras, no witnesses. GPS tracking confirms he took that one. I already contacted Townshend police, they set the road block."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk."

Sterling ignored the soft sound that came from the kitchen counter.

"He'll get rid of the ambulance and the people in it," he said. "Call off that road block and tell them to prepare for a chase. We have a fugitive now; initiate the search protocols. But wait with that until GPS shows he stopped; that will be our Point Zero."

"No need for that-" Maddox said, then raised his hand to silence them. He listened to his comm for a moment. "Are you all right?" he asked the other side of the line.

"I have their channel on our feed, sir," Min-Jung whispered from the laptop. Maddox nodded, and the voice from his comm spread across the room.

"…and he made us drive for another few minutes before he locked us in and left us here. We are now almost exactly one third of the distance to Townshend, north of you."

Sterling put a pin at the middle of the map. "When, exactly, did the suspect leave the vehicle?"

"Four minutes ago. First we took care of-"

"Injuries?" he asked.

"One dislocated shoulder, and maybe-"

"Not yours, you idiot, his injuries! What shape he is in?"

He waited for three seconds of hurt silence, before the voice continued, "Possible concussion from a bullet scrape on his head. Internal injuries from the bullets' hits are not likely, though there's a possibility of cracked, if not broken, ribs. He is suffering from severe pain and disorientation, and he won't get far. You'll probably find him laying somewhere in the woods."

"Yeah, right, and crying. Anything else?"

"No."

He moved his finger across his throat, and Min-Jung cut the line.

"Now, people, listen up!" He raised his voice and everybody stopped talking.

He looked at the faces around him; eager young cops; worried older ones; his agents, even Maddox waited for his words. He let silence spread for two more seconds, and-

And a quiet voice from the kitchen counter broke it. "_London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady…"_Her words ended in humming.

He turned his back to Florence, and stared down the cops until they returned their eyes to him.

"He left the vehicle five minutes ago. Don't count on that disorientation shit – he's as fast as any of you. We have our Point Zero, and that's where our search starts. It will take another fifteen minutes before you arrive there, five more before you organize and start. That's a half- hour advantage." He turned to the map, took a marker and drew a circle around Point Zero. "An average person on uneven terrain moves at four miles per hour. He will move at six, so we have a three mile radius. Maddox, it'll take every one of your men, every cop that Brattleboro has, and all the volunteers you can gather, to catch him. Hard-target search. Check every house around the road, search every hole. He will try to get a phone. Chase him off the road, deeper into the woods, away from civilians. Secure everything from Brattleboro and along that road north to Townshend."

"Chase him away from the road? He will disappear that way. If he reaches Green Mountain National Forest-"

"Do you want to be responsible for the lives that can be lost if he finds a house without protection?"

"He doesn't kill!" Florence McCoy cut the silence after his question.

He didn't turn to her; he kept his stare at Maddox. "He was handcuffed and injured, and he took out five men. Two SWAT cops. You can't risk more casualties."

"He didn't kill them, did he? He could've killed them, if he took them down," Florence said. Her voice sounded softer with every word she spoke. "You know, Sterling, you should really learn to separate your private life from your professional one. Learn to take rejection as a man. He told you he loved me, and that he had never loved you – accept it. Using the taxpayers' money for a police action just because you're hurt is selfish. _And_ illegal."

A dead silence fell across the room, broken only by a low snickering from one of the cops.

He looked at him. The cop swallowed.

"As I was saying," he said calmly. "Line up on that road, divide into groups, into tight formation; don't let the mouse pass through your net. Comb everything."

"We don't have much time before night falls," Maddox said to his men. "Stay together, and be careful. At any sign of danger, call for back up. Every group has to be near the others, so they can come to help."

Sterling put a few pins around the circle. "Check points at every mile. I want every vehicle stopped and searched, too."

"The Brattleboro locals will be happy," Maddox sighed. "First, the fair, then a manhunt. I'll leave you a few of my men – they'll work on paperwork and coordination. We'll be in touch." He waved to his people to start.

Florence cleared her throat. "Anybody notice that with the search formed like that, all your forces are between Eliot and this house, protecting Sterling from him?" she asked. "You don't have to worry, though. If your luck holds, he's set on 'disappear', not on 'take his guts out'. He won't come to you now, no, he knows you're waiting for him. He will make you wait. And fear. And he will strike in the moment you feel safe."

"That will be all, gentlemen." Sterling smiled at the cops, and kept a polite smile on his face until all of them left. Five cops stayed and occupied the back part of the room, near the broken windows, setting up their laptops.

He had to do one more thing before everything was set. His agents were also waiting for further instructions.

"Min-Jung and Denise will stay here with me at headquarters," he said. Keeping an eye on the two of them was just as important as catching Spencer. "Amanda, you wait for Claire and direct her, and after that go with the others. I want you to join the groups that the cops will form. One of you per one group – monitor what they are doing and inform me. If they get lucky and catch him, give him your phone. I want to talk with him. "

The agents that left didn't look thrilled with the prospect of an all-nighter in the woods with local huntsmen soaked in beer. Denise and Min-Jung, on the other hand, didn't look thrilled with staying here, either.

He turned the TV on, and commercials sang through the house, loud enough that no one could hear him talking with his agents.

He sat in the chair; the two of them, with their laptops, boards and papers, occupied the sofa and the other chair. "Tell me about the media coverage of this incident."

"None for now. It all happened too fast," Denise said. "There was a small report by the local TV station; reporters from the fair mentioned the police action. That's all."

And that was Sterling's mistake. This time he hadn't looked forward, sure that he would have Spencer caught.

He glanced at the kitchen counter and lowered his voice. "Hardison made a false identity for the owner of the house. They know he is here. We are here because this is the place where Nate will come looking for clues to what happened. But he won't come if he doesn't know that something happened at all. With Spencer out of communication for tonight and tomorrow, without the means to warn the team, we are the ones who will have to tell them about this. Start calling bigger TV houses. It will take at least an hour before you arrange for the crew to come, and two hours until they arrive. It will be night by then – so we can count on Hardison only noticing it tomorrow morning."

They nodded and pulled out their phones.

_Phones, yes_. He'd almost forgotten. Tiredness wasn't an excuse for this sloppiness, not even this headache that pulsated through his skull. He sighed and pressed the cold cloth once more onto the purple bruise, then left it on the table.

One more thing, and he could sit, finally, and just wait for results. He picked up the things Amanda had brought from the Chesterfield Inn and went to Florence McCoy.

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She had been only a tool in his mind, and that was maybe another mistake. She would've been a tool if she had been a gorgeous beauty with a paper mind; then he would know why Spencer hooked up with her and he would dismiss her from the game – but she was cute. Good looking, but nothing special.

Spencer crawled back to her after six months, and that meant this was something precious. That meant she was a player in this game.

He leaned his elbow on the kitchen counter next to her, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

"I'm sorry," he said. She blinked in surprise.

"For you, this was probably something special," he continued. "I understand that. If I could, I would find another way."

"No, you wouldn't," she said.

He let a small smile. "Yes, you're right. I wouldn't. But it sounded nice."

"Don't try to be nice with me, Sterling."

He studied her anger hidden under caution, the way she guarded herself with that blanket. Deeply buried pain wasn't buried deep enough for him, no matter in how many casual blankets she wrapped around herself.

"You're free to go, if you want." He put the bag with the Samsung box, her things and her phone on the counter between them.

"Sure, I'll go home while you chase my, my-" She bit her lip and changed the course. "I'll stay here. You're the ones who don't have the right to be in this house."

"This is a crime scene. It's up to you whether you want to be an innocent victim, or an accomplice, when this ends." He met her hard eyes and sighed. "Mrs. McCoy…"

"Florence. I prefer to have my enemies on a first-name basis. You damn well earned the right to call me that."

"Do you have a sister?"

She frowned. "No."

"But you surely have a friend you care about. What would you think if your friend got involved with a wanted criminal, a killer. Would you bang your head against the wall hearing her say: _Oh, but he doesn't kill anymore. He changed. He loves me_. And when the police contacted you to help your friend, would you hate the man-" He paused and waved his hand to Min-Jung and Denise. "…and women, who are only doing their jobs? People who are here to preserve the law, at any cost?" He tilted his head, still watching her. "I am not your enemy, Florence. I do my job. I'm ruthless and I don't give up, because I know why I'm doing it. And you've come a long way from a low obedient citizen to this. I watched your show – that's how I saw your message to Spencer. Your heroes fight for justice. You wouldn't be able to write that if you didn't feel the same."

"Justice and law aren't the same." There was a slight softening in her stare. "Eliot told me the difference between you and Nate. I prefer justice."

"Even in justice, Florence, killers pay for their deeds. No matter how much they change, no matter how much they love you. Even in justice, there's no statute of limitations on murder. Killers pay."

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

He pushed the phone closer to her hand. "Call a cab if you want to leave."

There was nothing more to say. He left her there and returned to the agents.

He leaned back in the chair and tented his fingers.

And another sleepless night was before him. He had to stay awake to react to anything suspicious reported from the police; they didn't know Spencer and couldn't read his moves.

There was something utterly disturbing about that picture. Eliot Spencer, mad as hell, chased through the wilderness like a beast. Sterling had witnessed his rage before – Spencer was an uncontrolled lunatic with fierce eyes – and he didn't envy those poor guys who would cross his path tonight.

There was a good chance that none of them would see him at all. His watch told him that more than fifteen minutes had passed; the police hadn't even gotten there to start the chase, and Spencer was more than two miles away from the ambulance van already.

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Eliot leaned his shoulder on the ambulance van and waved his picture printed on paper. "Fuck this shit, people. I'm going home! Look at this guy – it's me! Somebody will shoot me!"

The five guys that formed his group came closer; one of them carried a box full of Bud Light. Eliot snatched one with a swift move impossible for a man who had been shot with rubber bullets multiple times. That man wouldn't have been able to raise his arm without screaming. That man would be curled up, whimpering every time he tried to breathe. It took an immense effort to look that casual, but the guys couldn't see the pain in his movements.

He opened the can of beer and pushed the picture towards them. Hardison had showed him his picture on the Interpol wanted list a long time ago, and he knew how dark and blurred it would look when printed black and white.

"I'll be damned," one of them laughed. "Spitting image – only your hair is shorter. Here, take my cap. Don't confuse people."

He already had a green jacket that one of the locals had left; it covered the blue shirt and his too stiff movements. The pain was nasty and it was getting worse, but it was only that – pain. Nothing was broken. A small band aid he had snatched from the van, hidden in his hair, covered the scrape. He had cleaned his face while hidden only fifty feet from the ambulance. They expected he was already far away; nobody thought of checking the bushes around the ambulance.

The most dangerous moment was when all the police came, preparing the search, but as soon as the locals arrived, with their long guns, orange hunter jackets, and loud laughs, he simply joined them. Dusk was settling in, and shadows under the tall trees danced on everybody's faces equally. He disappeared into the middle of the largest group of local people, keeping himself as far as he could from the SWAT team and police. They tried to ignore his group, anyway.

Sterling wasn't there. His agents were, and he avoided them as well. Busy, excited people who ran to and fro helped to make this mess even more useful for him.

Maddox was an efficient bastard. The captain needed only four minutes to set everything in motion. He divided a mass of people into groups, and sent them all around, combining police with civilians.

He waited until Maddox joined one group and left as well, when the river of incoming people became a trickle of those who first went home to grab something to eat.

"I'll go with you for the first mile, and then I'll go and join a police group, just in case," he said when the oldest, probably the chief of local hunting club, gave the sign to start.

"No need to worry," the guy said. "If anybody asks, we'll confirm you're ours."

He was now behind all the hunters that were after him. _And_ he had a beer.

Dusk was coloring green leaves in a grey hue, and the moon raised its head above the branches.

He hid the smirk and followed them into the forest.

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Florence couldn't hear Sterling's conversation with his agents, and she made a mental note to talk with her CIA counselor about lip reading. Though, as it seemed, that knowledge would have to wait. She had no idea how long would she have to wait before she saw Eliot again, and got a chance to use it. _If ever_.

It took a tremendous effort to remain calm while she watched the hunters going after him, but she did it. It took an even greater effort to stop herself from going upstairs and hiding to cry. She had to be here, to know their steps.

Unfortunately, she had enough time to think of everything, to wallow in the lowest pit of regret and self-accusation. She brought this shit upon Eliot. No CIA guy could help her to learn enough, to know enough.

Maybe it was better – for Eliot – that their love affair ended this way, now. She was a security risk. Now he was free and on his way to the team, and no stupid, ignorant TV writer would put his life in danger.

The mere thought that she was the reason for his fall brought more tears – but she kept her derisive smile glued on her face, not letting anyone see how miserable she felt.

The time crawled by, driving her nuts. The cops were busy with their phones and laptops, those three before the fireplace with their similar activities, and she could only sit and worry herself to death. The only highlight of those hours was Sterling tasting one of the sandwiches she had made before they went for a walk. He choked and spit it out, his face going sickly red. She darted him one evil smile, but her heart ached at that reminder of their morning and day.

All the rest was just waiting, and dark thoughts about the shit she brought upon them.

No news was good news, right? She observed the darkness seeping in through the broken windows, bringing cold inside. Her blanket came in handy – the others must've felt chilled by now. The fireplace couldn't warm the big room fast enough.

She knew there would be no news at all. The chase would wander in the woods in vain – he would be on the plane while they still trudged through the mud. She trusted his abilities; she had seen them.

"Are you going to sit on that counter all night?" Min-Jung asked her when passing by her to the kitchen to make coffee. Good question.

"None of your damn business." She snapped the reply, and regretted it immediately. Her hostess was only doing her job, as Sterling said.

They weren't the bad guys here.

The change in perspective was confusing. She grew up watching crime shows on TV, rooting for the cops. _NCIS_, _Law and Order_, all of them were doing exactly what this group did – and how the hell had she ended up on the wrong side of the law?

Leverage were criminals, that was true. Yet, since she met them, she knew that the cause was the main distinction. _Why_ someone broke the law made all the difference. Nate was the best example – he was the most honest of all of them.

And thinking of Nate reminded her of something.

"I'm allowed to walk around freely?" she asked the woman.

"Yes, of course. Your house."

She took the cup of coffee Min-Jung gave her, but she didn't move yet.

_Friends and rivals_. She watched Sterling. He was going through papers, and talking into his phone, probably with Maddox, not paying any attention to her – and she had to smile.

His words were poisonous; he intentionally disturbed her, put this new perspective into her thinking, just like Nate would do to a mark. _Confuse and upset. Shake their core_. Sterling was a snake, and he did his whispering.

If only Eliot weren't in trouble, if only he hadn't ruined their days, she could've liked him.

The snake also left her an apple.

She took the phone. She remembered Nate's number. _Call him, save Eliot – when Nate comes, everything will be fine_. The snake's whispers were seductive.

She typed the numbers and got up to close the shatters and set the heat on high. And she kept smiling, feeling Sterling's gaze following her every move.

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Eliot followed his group for half an hour to the north, until they met and collided with another group, making a broad line through the forest. They took that 'combing' pretty literally. If he was really in front of them, slow and injured, this could've been dangerous.

Now, he only took another beer and let them pass by him.

The nights in deep forests were pitch black; the moon couldn't penetrate all the way through the mass of tangled branches, yet he knew where he was.

He turned his back to the sounds of the chase going north, and made a bee line to the house. It was almost directly south of him.

When he stopped to catch his breath – which showed him he had to ration his strength carefully – he recalculated the time needed to get to the house. This last part was full of meadows that cut open the thick forest, but the hills weren't so narrow.

It would take two hours, maybe more if he had to evade wandering lynch mobs, but every group had strong flashlights. The beams of light danced through the forest, knotting a complicated lace pattern.

Parker would enjoy skipping past them, picturing trajectories and directions in her mind.

He was far from enjoying this. He opened his shirt to feel his chest, and even the slightest touch ended with a hissed curse. Rubber bullets were meant to incapacitate, and any other human being would be, well, incapacitated. Small round marks at the places of impact were already almost black, and the bruises around them started to connect, spreading in circles all over his torso. So did pain. Dull, throbbing, very nasty. His head pulsated with every beat of his heart; the scrape wasn't big, but the hit still seemed to echo through his skull.

It slowed him down. Not much, but enough for him to notice.

He deeply regretted the last five minutes of driving in the ambulance. Those miles were useful at the beginning, a diversion that drew the entire chase up north, away from Florence, but he had to return the same distance through the nasty terrain.

Darkness didn't help either. His eyes were adjusted to the faint light coming from the moon, but when clouds and branches hid it, every stumble was like a hit to his injuries. Yet the cause for his gritted teeth wasn't the pain – it was his going through all the mistakes he had made until this point – all the warning signs he saw and ignored.

He closed his shirt, checked the position of the flickering flashlights behind him, and continued.

Being mad as hell surely helped with his speed.

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At one point, Min-Jung went out to talk with a reporter and a small crew from some TV station. Florence watched them through the shutters, not sure what to think of it. Nobody mentioned her name, not even Eliot's – they were only a "suspect" and a "hostage" – but the fact that Sterling arranged that had to mean something.

She didn't return to the kitchen counter, but to the kitchen, trying to keep herself busy with preparing more sandwiches.

The sound of an engine running on the driveway stirred the cops right at the moment she decided the pyramid of food she'd made was enough. All five cops jumped on their feet, running to the door.

Florence observed them with a sigh; at least two of them ought to go to the windows to cover the rest of them. Her seven heroes would never make such an amateurish mistake. Not to mention Eliot.

Sterling and Denise did the right thing. They separated and went to the opposite sides of the door, leaving Min-Jung to be in the middle of the room, to draw eventual attackers' attention to her.

The cops returned with pizza boxes. Sterling looked at her.

"Oh, you thought I was calling Nate?" she said. "Tough luck. I ordered us something to eat, since you clearly don't like my sandwiches. We can bond a little."

She was pretty surprised when a genuine smile spread over his face, and when he tipped his head in salute.

There had to be some positive quality in that man, or else Nate would never have liked him, much less called him his friend.

"And when you finish your pizzas, it will be time to consider leaving," she said. "Or you do you have to spend more hours here, listening to reports which report nothing - until you accept you failed?"

"Why do you think I've failed?" Sterling asked.

Because your prey is far away now, out of your reach, she wanted to tell him, but his smile worried her. _Always three steps ahead of you_, Eliot had told her. This man had more trouble hidden in his sleeve.

"No, Florence, we'll stay here until I'm sure he's been caught, or escaped."

And so she would stay here, too. "I think I'll leave before that. This is getting boring." She couldn't grift, but at least she could give him wrong information. If she only managed to confuse him, she could proclaim that a success. "I'll go pack my things."

He nodded and returned to his papers. She climbed the stairs and opened the door to the attic. Her hopes of eavesdropping now that she left them were in vain, though. The TV was set on low volume, but their voices were undecipherable.

While she was up here, she could pack her backpack in case she really needed to leave; at least her elephant hat and the t-shirts she bought for Eliot.

She took only one step into the bedroom when a raspy drawl from the darkness stopped her short.

"Well, finally. I almost fell asleep waiting."

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He turned on the light - the shutters were drawn together so nobody could see inside - and just smiled at her.

She wasn't proud of the small squeak that escaped her, but what the hell. She leaped into his arms and her heart exploded; she didn't know whether she would laugh or cry. He covered her face in kisses – she was sure he said something - and then he just gripped her tighter and held her there, not moving. _Oh yes, this is bliss_.

"How did you – I thought you were far away by now – you shouldn't have come here, you crazy-"

"Ready to go?" he whispered, stopping her unintelligible outpour. "The night is cold. We have to dress you in everything you have."

What? She gathered herself, tried to think. "What about Sterling?"

"What about him? He will be extremely pissed off when he sees that you left. He'll probably also know that I was here. That's enough for now. I'll think about him later." His hand caressed her face while he spoke, but she held it and stopped it.

"Wait, give me a minute. Sit. How long-"

"Nobody saw me, and they don't expect me here. But they might come to check on you." He lowered himself onto the bed, his every move slow and careful. She noted his pale face and the suppressed pain in his smile, and remembered the paramedic's description of his shape to Sterling. His every move must have been agonizing, and he had climbed onto the upper floor, and… she took one long breath.

"You aren't here to deal with Sterling?" she asked to be sure.

"No. Sterling is just an itch – I'll pay attention to him when I get you out of this. He ain't important now."

She stared at him, and with every second that passed, her heart sank deeper.

He was free, with a solid advantage. He could be ten miles away now, and those pathetic people would never catch him. By morning he could be in Boston, disappearing completely, joining the team in the next few hours. Free and safe.

She could understand coming back here to deal with the threat, to stop Sterling. But coming here just to take her away, through the people who would shoot him on sight, it was, it was… she held the railing of the bed with a hand that started to shake. To escape now from _here_, he would have to go through that ring again – he doubled the danger, as if there hadn't been enough already.

Her mouth went dry. "We both agreed I wasn't in danger," she said, her voice even and quiet. "I'm not; I can leave if I want to."

He looked at her, and his smile faded. "I couldn't leave not knowing it for sure."

And then she realized, looking into his eyes, that it would always be that way.

Her heart froze.

All his accumulated mistakes she had noticed flashed in front of her eyes.

And it would be even worse now, after this. The police and Sterling now knew about her, about them. The FBI and all his enemies would know before dawn. She was marked as _his_ now, and his every visit, their every meeting, would have a tail from her side.

He would always think of her first, ignoring the danger; always, until somebody got lucky and a bullet stopped him. Because of her.

She clutched the railing tighter, to anchor herself.

There were those moments in life that changed everything, when life stopped, frozen in an image, giving time to look at things. To know. She had lived through one of those moments already, while watching the trapped, scared rat back in New Zealand.

Now she watched the man she loved, his eyes changing expression as he noticed her frozen hesitation. A love within her grasp, here to take it. He was hers. She didn't know how to live without him.

And she had to let him go.

The weight of her decision filled her eyes with tears. If he stayed with her, he would die. He would always put her first before his own safety. In his line of work, it couldn't last long. And anywhere near her, he would be a target. Terrifying clarity of that knowledge softened her knees.

"What's going on, Flo?" he asked. The gentleness of his voice made her want to scream. It was impossible even to think about not seeing him again, but the alternative was seeing him dead in a pool of blood. _Because of me_.

She let go of the railing, and clutched her hands at the small of her back to hide the shaking from him. "I can't do this," she whispered. "Y-you told me to tell you if this was too much for me. It is. I can't live like this. N-not even for you."

He didn't even wince, and that was the worst of all. He went perfectly still – no movement, no expression on his face, in his eyes. Only his lips were a flat, hard line.

There were thin lines that tethered them together – she had to cut them all. To rip her heart out, and ignore it, show nothing, until she knew he was safe.

She drew one breath, and almost choked when it slammed at the barrier in her throat. It hurt as if someone squeezed the claws around her neck. "It's better to do it now, then to wait for some other, other… thing that would happen. And you know it would. I can't live waiting for it to happen."

She could – she wanted to, and for the moment she hoped, in spite of her knowing she would be the death of him, that he would just wave her words away and tell her to stop blurting nonsense.

He didn't.

"You're right," he said. The pain surged through her when she heard that level, colorless sound. "It wasn't fair to involve you in my life. You saw just a glimpse of it now – it's better for you to stop this before you were forced to see it all."

She made a step towards him, but he quickly raised his hand, stopping her.

"Don't. Stay there." He smiled while saying that, but it was an empty smile, as if the life was drained from him. "Are you sure you can leave the house and go freely? Return to Boston as if nothing happened?"

She only nodded, she couldn't speak.

"If you ever need me…if Sterling bothers you again… call Nate. He will tell me."

"What- what are you going to do now?"

He met her eyes; she wailed inside. "I'll go home," he said.

With that, he simply turned around and opened the shutters. _This_ was their home, she thought, brain numb. She watched him leave, stood there as a lifeless shell when he turned around to smile at her once more.

She didn't move, not even when he vanished.

He would live, she repeated to the empty bedroom, staring into nothing. It was worth it. Her pain wasn't important. He would live. He would be safe when not near her. He would live.

But his eyes, when he sent her that last smile, were dead.

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Maddox had reported three separate shootings in the woods in the last half an hour, all false alarms. They were lucky nobody got shot when groups collided and opened fire one at another.

Sterling was becoming more pissed off with every hour that passed, though he had expected this outcome. Catching Spencer now would be only a bonus – his main goal was to wait for Nate here, and that one was going quite well for now.

Well, until Florence returned downstairs, and in just one glance at her, he knew what a mistake he had made.

She climbed down the stairs carrying her backpack. There was something sluggish in her steps that drew his attention, and he went to meet her.

"I'm going home," she said passing by him, and he reached out and gripped her upper arm.

This wasn't the same woman that had slammed a chair at his head. She simply stopped, not even trying to pull her arm away. And when he saw her red-rimmed eyes, he knew.

"Sonofabitch," he whispered. "He was here!"

"Of course he wasn't." She huffed, and then tried to free herself. Too late.

"Sit here." He pulled her to the chair where he'd sat moments before and turned to the cops. "All of you, out! She was upstairs only a few minutes, he is still nearby!"

The cops rushed outside, pulling their guns. He turned to Min-Jung and Denise. "Call Maddox."

"Sure, make a mess, call them all here," Florence said. "It will only help him, when the entire chase around him suddenly clears out and leaves."

"Nice try," he said. Min-Jung signaled that she had the captain on speakerphone. Denise was frantically dialing other numbers.

"Maddox, he evaded you all," he said. "He was in the house only minutes ago. Direct all of your men down south, and pull them all from road blocks and check points. Tell them to get in their cars and come here. We have a new Point Zero, and he is close. You can catch him in less than five minutes, if your men start _now_."

"Well, if that's it, I'm gone," Florence said.

"No, I can't let you go now, it isn't safe. In a matter of minutes everything will be full of nervous, tired and pissed off people with guns. I'll call you a cab when this is over."

"That's _extremely_ nice of you." Her smile was crooked; she didn't even bother to hide her irony. She made her best effort to look bored and only annoyed, but he saw desperation under that mask.

He sat on the coffee table in front of her chair, put his elbows on his knees, and looked into her eyes. "What happened, Florence?" he asked.

Her eyes bled pain in an instant. She looked around her, at the agents in the swing of the action, and she clearly saw there was no point in pretending anymore, because she smiled. "When you love somebody, set them free," she whispered. "You won't be able to reach him through me. Ever again."

He knew now what she had done. And the last thing he thought he would feel toward the irrelevant woman he'd used was respect.

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The mad rage in his chest fought to break out while he blindly ran through the woods.

_Finished_. He repeated that word as a mantra with his every step, desperately searching for that feeling from before, when he had managed to file her out of his life, to close her into a secured part of his brain.

Just this morning he had held her in his arms thinking how much he had to change – but there was no change that could erase everything that followed him.

He'd been right. She was a punishment, given to him only to be taken away. To show him that his entire life was merely this: a beast chased through the darkness, alone, and sentenced to die.

The forest closed around him until he couldn't breathe anymore, trapped under the thick roof hovering over his head, and he changed direction. He burst out into a clearing, on the slope of a hill. A huge meadow spread around him. The open sky above him gave some light; the moon was hidden behind the clouds and its light was dull, but it changed with every minute as high winds cleared the shroud.

He climbed up, trying only to breathe, without thinking. _Without feeling_.

He stopped when he reached the end of the clearing, under the trees. When he turned around, the entire Connecticut River Valley twinkled beneath him.

This was better. He lowered himself onto the ground. Only when he sat did he become aware of how tired he was, weary with pain and anger raging through him.

The sounds of the chase were closer now. He refused to hear them, to go after them and kill them all, one by one. He slammed his fist into the tree and the pain helped, but it didn't feed the need for destruction whirling inside him.

It wasn't their fault. The police and locals were innocent. This would have happened anyway. If not now, then the very next time, when some other shit caught up with him. That next time she might not have gotten away unscathed. Or alive. This _was_ better for her.

He had lost her once already – but now he knew what he was losing, and it was unbearable.

His control was slipping, rage was taking over, and he covered his ears so as not to hear the chase anymore. A mindless killing spree would not set him free of this pain; only a bullet could. He played with that thought for a moment – _finish this shit here and now, for good. _That was his life; killing. It had gotten him here, now, curled in the darkness in mud and rotten leaves. Fighting that fact didn't change it. _Kill them. Get killed. End this_. A sweet song of desperation whispered in his ear, loss clutching his heart.

But he couldn't do it to the team. They needed him. He couldn't do it to _her_. Not now, after this.

A few years before, he would've been able to take this only as a nasty break-up. Women came and went; there was always another waiting in line.

Not now. Not this one. Not a woman who knew _him_, and not a false identity he created for nameless others. He didn't have strength to think of her as just one of many.

_Finished_. That word had no strength now.

He had no idea how long he sat there, watching the clearing beneath him. Lower in the forest, he could see flashlights twinkling through the leaves. The chase was closing in. He had minutes before they climbed up and reached this meadow, and he had to move.

The first step was to set that _finished_ permanently in his mind, and erase her, at least until he put some distance between Boston and himself. The second step: reach Brattleboro, get a car, and find a way to get back to Portland as soon as he could. Nate would need every detail of this mess with Sterling to-

A movement on the meadow drew his attention – black shapes on the grass silvery with moonlight. The first of the hunters were here.

He slowly got up. Sitting after half-blind running through the forest calmed the bruises down. Now, every move pulled beaten muscles. It felt like accumulated pain from ten nasty sparring fights.

It would take some time before he regained his full speed, and he had to start immediately, but he stopped mid-step and turned around to look at the shapes.

They didn't have flashlights.

The flickering was coming from behind them, within the trees.

He stepped back and leaned his back against the dark tree, melting into the darkness, observing.

Five shapes formed a loose group on the left, five on the right. Both groups had two men in front, three spread behind them.

A shroud of clouds covered the moon for a few seconds; by the time it cleared, they'd changed their positions. The three men were in front now, the two behind.

It was a very distinctive type of advance. The hairs on his neck stood up.

He couldn't believe Sterling would do _this_.

He turned his back on them and ran, ran as he had never run before in his life. He had to put as much distance between them as he could, and return, making a huge detour.

He could only pray he would reach the house and Florence on time.

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Florence was the only one able to eat her sandwich without choking on it, so she ate it. Frankly, she had no idea what provoked their reactions; it was a solid cheese and ham sandwich.

Everybody calmed down after the initial frenzy in the room. Denise was eating with her in the kitchen, but pizza leftovers. Sterling and Min-Jung talked with Maddox a lot, and with each other a lot.

She didn't care.

She concentrated on her bites and stared directly in front of her, at the white carpet full of glass shards. From time to time, she even managed not to think about anything.

Gunshots echoing around the house – also from time to time – only made her blink. She knew he was safe. She ruined her life, and his life, for him to be safe, and god help him if he ruined that by getting himself killed. She was so numb and drained that she even snickered at her own thoughts.

She was, also, the last person who noticed Eliot when he entered the room.

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It took twenty minutes of evading the chase before Eliot reached the house; by the time he slammed the door open, his heart was pounding like a hammer.

And there she was, with that awful thing in her hands, raising her eyes to him in confusion.

The relief was so overwhelming that he closed the door quietly, very politely, and let out one long sigh.

Sterling didn't move, he just turned towards him in his chair, but the two hostesses jumped up aiming their guns at him.

"And now," he snarled at Sterling. "Tell me what the hell you were thinking! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Min-Jung, Denise, put the guns down." Sterling slowly got up. "Hello, Spencer." The bastard had the guts to smile. "Good thing you came to talk. I have a few words of my own-"

For the first time he regretted that the room was so huge. It was nice for a living room, but deadly when he was more than twenty feet away from the two agents with guns. Even worse: one was with Sterling, the other one near Florence, twelve feet left of Sterling. He couldn't take down both of them at the same time.

But that was the least important thing right now. The real threat was behind his back, in the darkness, not in his living room. "You thought I wouldn't notice them in the woods, after me?" he asked. "I wouldn't recognize them? Think better next time, Sterling, because if I let you live after this, you will really need them around you."

Sterling slowly spread both of his arms, in a gesture of complete innocence. "I have no idea what you are talking about. You recognized _what_?"

"I spent days and days running away from them, I learned everything about their way of chasing people. They go in groups of five, in close pursuit. Every member of the group covers each other, they advance in waves, always within reach, and in sight, even at night. Their groups comb the terrain leaving no square foot unchecked. I saw two of them after me tonight. How many of them did you call?" He took two steps into the room, but he stopped. He came here to talk, not to smash Sterling's head into the wall. _For now_.

Sterling tilted his head a little and shrugged. "Well, it's not my fault if you saw some weird militia around. You Americans have strange ways of-"

"I'm talking about North Korean Special Operation Force, you damn idiot!" And he felt them behind his back even now, in the room, just like he did after escaping the prison after that sapphire monkey fiasco. "You'll learn not to play with them; I don't know what price they have on my head, but I can tell you one thing – you will pay it, in the end. You'll find out that there are genies you can't simply put back in the bottle. What the hell were you thinking?"

Sterling's arms fell to his sides. "I never contacted anyone from North Korea. You've lost your mind."

"Stop with the bullshit. Now I know why you had let us leave the convention; it didn't make sense back then, but now it's clear. There were too many people, too many eyes, in the heart of Boston. Delivering me to NKSOF then would have been complicated and someone could start asking questions. This was better – this way you got me separated, and you could let them take over, and pick up their prize."

Sterling said nothing on that. His posture didn't change, his eyes only narrowed more. He had seen him this way before – _thinking_ – and it usually ended with Leverage scattering because of his doings. His anger ratcheted one level up. Yet, Sterling's gaze swiveled for a moment to the girl standing next to him. _Min-Jung_. That's what Florence had called her, he remembered. Korean name.

He didn't need more. "Play your games however you want. I'm taking Florence and leaving – and if you try to stop me, I swear I will tear all three of you apart, guns or no guns." He looked at the two women now, both still with guns in their hands – Min-Jung near Sterling, the blonde by Florence's side. "And I ain't bluffing," he said low. He meant it. "Florence, get your things and come here. _Now_."

Only then did he dare look at her directly – and he was half sure she would refuse, or ask that damn _why_, or tell him to go to hell with his fucking life… but she nodded and took one step towards him.

The blond one stopped her, pulling her back, and he let out one low growl.

"Let her go, Denise," Sterling quickly said. "Do what he said, both of you. Min-Jung, you sit down."

"But we have guns; he can't do anything," Min-Jung said; she looked as if she didn't believe his words. "We can-

The loud explosion covered the rest of her sentence, and a bullet whizzed between them all. It hit her between the eyes. A red dot blossomed for a moment, while she still stood upright.

Even his heart stopped for a second. Min-Jung swayed and fell in front of Sterling.

The only sound in the room was Florence's small meep; she covered her mouth with her hand and swayed the same way the dead woman did. He made one step towards her, not realizing what he was doing, but a gun now turned towards him.

"Stop." Denise said. Her eyes behind the barrel were steady and calm. She took a step back, pulling Florence with her, until the kitchen counter stopped her. Both him and Sterling were too far away to do anything.

"And now, we will all just sit and wait." She pushed Florence a step away and pulled her phone out. "Stay here, Florence, and don't move, or I'll shoot Spencer right now." She dialed a number and spoke quietly for a few seconds. He didn't understand Korean – one glance at Sterling and a barely invisible shake of his head told him that he didn't, either.

Florence stood frozen, and he hoped she wouldn't move, wouldn't draw attention to herself. He tried not to watch her frantic eyes at all, and the hammering of his heart was so loud that it almost covered Denise's words.

She cut the line, and dialed another number. The gun didn't move a millimeter, still pointed at his chest. And he was too far away to reach her before she fired the bullet.

Sterling was of no use; Eliot couldn't count on him to understand that he needed a distraction to take her down, so he would have to do without it. She would have time to fire three bullets at him, and if his luck held, she wouldn't aim at his head. Only a head shot could stop him from taking that gun before it turned on Florence.

"Captain Maddox, he's here! In the house!" Denise screamed into the phone. "He killed them all! Send back up! Hurry!"

"Denise, what do you want?" Sterling said when she put the phone back in her pocket.

"What part of 'He killed them _all_' did you not understand?" She asked. Her gun made a quick sway at Sterling. She fired one bullet. The hit swept him off his feet; he flew back and crashed into the coffee table, shattering the glass and wood all around.

That one second Eliot stood frozen was enough; she wrapped her arm around Florence's neck and put the gun against her head. _So much for charging at her_. His options were growing thin.

"Who are you?" He snarled.

"Clearly, I'm not North Korean," she said. "But I was the one who realized that the best way to find you was to stick to someone who was good at finding you before. Myanmar is offering half a million for you. North Korea is offering the same, plus my life."

"But you're Interpol!" Florence's voice sounded hysterical already, and he took one step forward. Denise shook her head, pressing the gun tighter. He stopped.

"Denise _was_ Interpol. We found out she was accepted onto his team. The girl was blond, and it cost her her life. I'm not Denise. Now, Spencer, I want you to kneel and put your hands on your head. You will slowly lie down, face down. Any sudden movement, and she'll take a bullet. We'll wait for my men. They'll be here in a minute, much faster than the police."

His heart was in his throat now; if he did that, he wouldn't be able to do anything. She was a professional; the moment the Koreans barge through the door, she would kill Florence without a second thought. He glanced at the dead woman; Denise had worked with her for months. Killing a stranger would be easy.

But behind Min-Jung's body, he saw movement, and he quickly looked back at Denise, keeping her eyes locked on himself.

"I can give you more than half a million. And I can give you your life, too," he said. "You can't trust them."

"I can-" A gunshot cut her words, and she flew back.

He rushed forward, breathless, catching Florence mid-fall; the bullet from Sterling's gun went through her curls before hitting Denise.

The blond rolled over the floor and raised her gun at him. He hit her hand and took the gun; she curled up on the floor, writhing in pain. Sterling had hit her in the shoulder.

They didn't have any time.

Florence took a step back. "I won't go with you. I'll only slow you down," she said.

His vision went red; all his instincts screamed about enemies closing in, he could _feel_ them around. "This isn't the time for - this isn't about our relationship, you idiot. This is about saving your life! I'm not here because - look, _this_ is what you feared, okay? It's happening right now, and if you don't leave with me, you'll die. She called them, and they'll be here any minute now. I'll take you to safety and leave you. I won't bother you anymore."

And in the moment he said it, it hit him. There wouldn't be any safety for her. Ever again. He could negotiate something with Sterling, give him something he wanted in exchange for his secrecy. Sterling wasn't a murderer; he wouldn't risk her life by giving her name around. But with this woman involved in this from beginning, the name Florence McCoy was blinking red on the Dark Net. The North Koreans knew about her, and everybody would know before dawn. She would never be safe.

His past had touched her, and marked her. The realization was so strong that he almost swayed, staring at her. She must've seen the change in his eyes because her face lost all her remaining color. "What?" she whispered.

It was better if she didn't yet realize that he'd destroyed her life. "No more talking. Go!" He pushed her towards the door, but she pulled herself from his grip and ran to Sterling.

"He is alive! Do something!"

"No time for that. They'll be here any minute; we have to leave-"

"Eliot!" she screamed at him, her eyes fiery. "He is a witness, just like me. They will kill him."

He would've left him there. He had her life in his hands now, and anything else would kill them both. He was already too slow because of the pain, and he was tired, and he would have trouble escaping NKSOF even in the best shape. But he looked at her eyes and saw a reflection in them, the reflection of the man she thought he was – of the man she needed him to be.

"It's the right thing to do. And you know it." She didn't look scared, though her eyes were teary; she looked defeated. That crushed him.

He looked at Sterling; unconscious, with a bullet hole in his suit. Dead weight. He cursed under his breath.

He picked him up, not gently at all, and heaved him over his shoulder.

"Okay; will you go now, finally?"

Her eyes darted one grateful smile; she picked up her backpack and hurried.

He went first, carrying Sterling and directing her steps. He led her into the woods, praying they would put some distance behind them before the Koreans reached the house, found Denise and set after them.

He was leading the woman whose life he'd destroyed, and who wasn't his anymore – and he was carrying the man who had ruined both of their lives. His head pounded with pain.

He had no idea what to do now, or how to keep them all alive.

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	7. Chapter 7

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 7

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Eliot had to stop after fifteen minutes.

He had set a fast pace through the thick forest, going deeper into the hills. Behind them, noises rose: muffled male voices, one female scream, Maddox's groups starting to gather around the house. They were faster than he expected. But those noises didn't trouble him so much – the silent hunters were the danger here. The Koreans wouldn't make any sound while closing in.

Each and every one of them was at least as good as he was, and potentially much better. They were perfectly trained machines, the best elite special force. He didn't stand a chance if the Koreans surrounded them and forced him to fight. He knew his limitations. Even in a one-on-one fight with him at his best, the outcome would be uncertain. But now he was tired, shaken, beaten and slow. Worst of all, he carried an unconscious man, and Florence was with him in this mess.

A different silence followed him much closer, five steps behind him. Florence hadn't said a word since they left the house. Her silence whipped at him, speeding him up as much as feeling the Koreans on his tail did.

Fear whirled inside him while he listened to her steps. They were being chased, so walking behind him was the worst position. But, if he sent her ahead of him, she could be the first to go down if the Koreans were already waiting for them. The exposure was driving him crazy, and the darkness around them thickened. Every bush could hide an attacker, and he could only storm directly through bushes, to put as much distance behind them as he could.

Voices and shouting continued to follow them. It sounded different than in the first hours after he escaped the ambulance. Back then, both police and locals chased some visiting criminal unlucky enough to be recognized in their county. Now, they chased a killer. After Denise's call to Maddox and the discovery of Min-Jung's body, they had an armed murderer who had taken two people as hostages. There wouldn't be any jokes and beer in _this_ chase. And the majority of the police groups were still going toward the house, so that meant they were everywhere, gathering from all the sides.

The dead weight on his shoulders strained his strength, yet he gritted his teeth and pushed on.

She followed.

It was a nasty slope that depleted all his reserves; a slope that ended with a ridge between two small hills. They climbed high, and when he turned to look back, he could see lights beneath them. The Koreans didn't have flashlights. They could be only fifty feet away, being called first.

They were too visible out in the open on that ridge, with the moon above them.

He turned his back to the Connecticut River Valley – not looking at the woman who followed him – and started climbing down other side of the hill, where the moon couldn't reach them.

He'd made only ten steps when his knees almost buckled, when lightheadedness struck him hard. He ignored it, continued, stumbling downhill for one more minute, not ready to admit to himself he couldn't go on without a break. And without any light.

He gave up when he slipped in mud, and stopped his fall by slamming into a tree. And that was it. Fifteen damn minutes.

He lowered Sterling to the ground, and stayed on his knees beside the man. He waited for his pulse to slow down, to stop sending arrows of pain into his head with every heartbeat.

They were a hundred feet below the ridge, in pitch black, and maybe – but only maybe – they could stop here for a few minutes. He couldn't see Florence, just a slightly lighter shape near him.

"I have my phone back." She pulled it from her pocket and blue light flickered on her face. No smile, no visible expression on it, just huge, dark eyes glazed with shock. Her teeth clattered. "No s-signal, though."

"Sit and rest," he said, taking his jacket off. "Take this and keep it – you'll be cold in a minute."

"Thank you." Her voice sounded breathless and thin. He almost asked her if she was okay – then stopped. Of course she wasn't okay. She'd had to watch a young woman's head exploding. The last time, she at least didn't see Knudsen dying under the glass shards. Death followed him into her life, again. _You pulled the plug too late, darling_. A cold hand gripped his heart, and squeezed; a pain much stronger than any physical.

"You have to turn it off." He continued slowly, erasing any hurry from his voice. "They can track us with that phone, remember?"

"Oh." She fumbled with it for a second.

"No, wait, bring it here. One more minute won't make any difference now. I need some light."

She stopped. She was shaken and slow, yes – but he knew her hesitation had nothing to do with her shock. He lowered his head to hide the bitter smile he felt spreading. Her withdrawal was like a stab with a knife – and she even didn't know yet what was really happening to her life, the real amount of shit he brought on her. Hiding the desperation from his voice was much harder than hiding that smile. "I have to check on Sterling. He is still bleeding."

That moved her feet; the light flickered above him now.

He concentrated on a man before him. Pulse: not strong, but steady, no fluctuations. Breathing: shallow and slow. Sterling felt cold, blood loss taking its toll, but he was lucky. The bullet came out. Eliot felt the exit wound. It wasn't too big, but it could kill Sterling here, far away from any help.

The light disappeared for a moment; she shuffled with something for a few seconds. Enough time for him to curse the change in his own thinking about leaving him, and his old instincts kicking in. _Leave no man behind_. This wasn't Sterling now – this was someone who needed his help.

The light returned, along with a pink shirt she pushed in his face. The roll of duct tape followed. "I packed my backpack while they were busy with chase. I learn from the best," she said, then added, "Parker."

That shirt changed things. He took off Sterling's suit jacket, and tried not to think about their visit to Brattleboro that very day. She was silent watching him while he worked on entry and exit wounds. It took only two minutes to make two patches of makeshift bandage and secure them with tape. It would stop the bleeding for now and keep Sterling alive until they found some safe place to leave him.

And safe places were something pretty much out of their reach now.

They'd been there less than four minutes, and sounds of the chase already closed in. The Koreans were ahead of the police chase, Denise called them first – they could be much closer now.

"Turn the phone off. Don't get rid of it. We might need it at some point, but _do not_ turn it on."

He would give anything, anything in the world, just to hear her half mocking _why_ now.

She turned the phone off.

He put the jacket back on Sterling – the man needed all warmth he could get now – and picked him up again, swaying under his weight. Eliot tried to think only about how good it would feel to punch the bastard, after they got out of this, but his mind was set only on Flo's quiet, light steps that followed him. In silence.

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Rotten leaves made a layer on the wet ground, hiding tree roots and protruding rocks, and Florence fell four times while they climbed down the slippery slope. He didn't turn back, not even once. His hurt and anger were helping her cause, she tried to tell herself, but right now she couldn't grasp what her damn course was. She tried to push him away, to keep him alive – and now he was here again, yet still _dumped_. Still in the danger she'd brought upon him, a much worse variant of the initial one. He'd returned for her, for god's sake, just as she'd thought he would do, _after_ she told him to go away. And there they were – her slowing him down, him making mistakes.

They wouldn't get out of this alive.

She was too stunned to cry. She also couldn't stop shaking since he'd given her his jacket, since she'd clutched it around herself and breathed the scent he'd left on it. Mixed with traces of eucalyptus and lavender, bringing their Jacuzzi fun back too vividly, and everything they had done that day.

Her feet caught a root, and she flew forward again, face first. For a moment she was certain she would hit him and send them all downhill, but his hand flashed and caught her backpack, stopping her fall only a foot from the mud.

"Easy. Can't carry you both." His whisper caressed for a second, then his voice changed. "We've reached the bottom. It should be level terrain from now on, for a while."

She looked behind her, up to the high dark shape of the hill. The ridge was clear and cut against the sky and moonlit clouds.

Then she saw it. A black shape stood against the clouds, observing the darkness where they hid.

"Eliot…"

He followed her gaze upright and a curse died on his lips.

"Move." He pushed her in front of him now, and followed closely.

Now she knew how the Hobbits felt when they saw a Nazgûl on their tail. She kept the quick pace, stumbling and panting, fueled by fear of that silent silhouette.

But Eliot's reaction was what set a dread deep in her bones. It was only _one_ man up there.

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He knew she couldn't keep this speed up much longer. He also knew that the Koreans never stopped while a clear scent was in their nose. They'd follow them to Canada if needed. They had chased him for six days through the jungle when he'd escaped, without dogs, without any tracking device, only combing the broad stripe of jungle behind him. When they had many groups, they usually formed a semi-circle behind their prey; the outer groups on wings gradually narrowing that circle on the left and right, like fishermen closing a net around a fish. Several times he was almost completely surrounded, but he slipped before the circle closed through mere luck.

He saw only two groups now, but there could be more of them he didn't see. At least ten men were after him.

The thing he couldn't think of now was the logistics of their action; who organized it, how they infiltrated and came into the country, where their base was…it would have to wait a little.

Florence was slowing down. They'd rushed through the woods for more than an hour now, with only one short break. He could continue; he knew how to lock the pain down and use it as fuel, but her exhaustion was more visible with every step.

One more hour of this, and he would face a nasty decision. He could carry only one of them.

Sterling was still out cold, and even if he had been conscious, he wouldn't have been able to walk much, or fast.

Five minutes might give her enough rest to continue. He only needed to find a good place to stop.

Voices and lights in front of him stopped him short.

"Don't move," he whispered. She froze.

A wandering police group was coming directly towards them. He couldn't go back, not knowing how close the Koreans were behind them, and turning left or right wouldn't get them from their path fast enough. He lowered Sterling into the leaves. "Stay with him and make no sounds."

Sterling's suit and her jacket were both black; they would be well hidden.

He hurried to intercept the police, moving directly toward the beams of light that searched the trees and bushes. Four flashlights; five men.

Surprise slowed them down and their guns didn't turn to him when he dashed forward, knocking them down and aside. They tried to fight back. Tried.

Well, four of them did.

The fifth man in the group took a few steps back when he attacked, and he just stood there, watching him deal with the cops. Waiting for him to finish.

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Florence poked Sterling's arm with her finger. No reaction. She thought about shaking him, but if he didn't wake up while being carried, shaking would do no good.

She sat back in the leaves, listening to the fight. Nothing to worry about. This was Eliot, after all. Fighting a few cops should've been routine exercise for him.

After only fifteen seconds she knew she was right; the sounds stopped. She could hear only a quiet rustling of feet on leaves, so she stood up to go and help him tie them up or whatever he needed.

She took ten steps through the bushes, and stopped before entering the more open part where the fight had taken place.

Two shadows stood there.

She strained her eyes – the moon wasn't helping, slowly sinking behind the clouds – and blinked right at the moment when the shadows clashed.

They separated immediately, returned to their positions, and made identical, slow steps aside.

She caught her breath.

The shadows circled a few seconds before they surged forward again; this time one flew back. She couldn't recognize which one was Eliot. She tried to see anything familiar in the movements of the fallen one when he got up. Nothing.

Two more sudden clashes; a sound of a broken bone that sent nausea through her; quick, brutal hits that echoed through the woods.

After the last exchange, both shadows swayed when returning to their slow, cautious circles around each other.

She leaned on a tree and slid down; her knees felt like rubber. This wasn't his usual fight. This was waiting for an opponent's mistake that would result in a lethal blow. A search for an open, vulnerable point in defense, and after that, only one hit to end this.

And this other shadow wasn't a cop.

The moon was hidden completely when the shadows collided again, and this time they merged into one.

She saw no clear movements; the hits and grunts subsided. The fight ended with a heavy sound of one of them hitting the ground.

She was too frozen to move.

A flashlight beam found her and blinded her.

"Stay there," Eliot said.

She curled on the ground and put her head between her knees, breathing through nausea and relief.

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"Flashlights, one more jacket for you, a bottle of water," Eliot said putting the things he brought on the ground by Sterling. "A cop's phone and a map, too."

Florence watched his silhouette, the constant sway in his steps now intensified. "That last one was a Korean?" she asked.

He hesitated.

"Yeah." He said only that before returning to the fight scene. She put the bottle in the backpack, one flashlight in her pocket, and opened the map. She pointed the other flashlight on the map; she had trouble finding Brattleboro in a green hills.

"Where are we?" she asked when he returned.

"Less than a mile from the road to Townshend; north of Brattleboro – and little to the west. We are going deeper into the wilderness."

"Why?" The question escaped her before she remembered, and she bit her lip, waiting through his silence.

"Because going back or to the road would be suicide."

She looked at the map again. There was a horizontal line there, beneath their position. "What about this road? From Brattleboro toward Wilmington? We can turn south, and we couldn't miss it."

He leaned closer and put his finger on the hill where they were. Then he drew a straight line that went away from both roads, up and to the left, deeper into the green. It stopped on a blue triangle. A small lake. The green wasteland spread behind it as well.

She squinted to see better, and saw a thin white line that touched the lake. A road, maybe a forest road. "What's there?"

"A decoy. Nothing more."

Miles and miles from here to that decoy. "But…"

"The roads are monitored," he answered her unspoken question. "Once we're spotted on the road, it's blocked, and they are there with cars in a minute. They are mobile; we aren't."

She glanced up from the map, to his face. The lines in his face grew deeper.

"The majority of the chase is behind our backs, cutting us off from those roads anyway." He traced a blue line that went from the lake all the way to the Connecticut River. "Remember that lake. If we get separated, go there. Keep the moon at your back and little to the right until you reach this creek. Follow it, and it will take you to the lake." His voice fell when he took the map and put it in her backpack. He reached and turned her flashlight off.

Cold, precise, informative. She wanted to grab him and shake him to erase that awful formality from his voice, but instead just asked, "Isn't it easier to wait until the cops find me?"

"The Koreans separated. This one joined a group of cops. Maybe the others did that, too. It's not safe. Get up, we have to get going. We're losing time."

If it was possible to speak in shorter sentences, he would have found a way. She did what he said and fastened the backpack while he checked Sterling before picking him up.

He started walking without turning around. She followed.

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"You said you took the cop's phone," Florence said from behind him when he stopped. He couldn't respond at once; he was listening to the chase. She caught it and stopped too. She didn't repeat her question.

His own breathing was too loud and troubled; the only sound that penetrated through that was a gunshot that echoed across the slopes behind them.

"What was that?"

He didn't turn to her. "Either somebody shot someone from another group… or they gave a sign that they found the group I left tied up. And that partially answers your question… no signal for cop's phone. Locals don't have police radios and their phones ain't working." Damn, speaking was an effort. He didn't lower Sterling this time, knowing it would be much harder to pick him up again. His shoulders and back were on fire, and his arms felt numb.

He didn't plan to rest here. He didn't tell her that their position was revealed now, if search parties found the fight scene. Maddox would have one solid point to gather all the groups closer to them. She also didn't notice he had changed their direction. The cops wouldn't notice it, but it was necessary because the Korean guy might remember what direction they'd been travelling.

He was making a bigger detour up north, to reach that creek that would take them to the lake. More time, more hills to climb or go around them, and he was getting slower with every step. She was also exhausted already, and they had hours and hours before them.

"But you will call Nate with that phone when you catch the signal?"

"And risk the North Koreans on his tail? No."

She said nothing at that, but he could feel her mood sinking. Damn, he wished he would stop feeling things about her. He didn't need any light to know her expression, and the fear in her eyes. "The cop will report the missing phone," he said. "They will track it, and get the phone records. Sterling's agents are mixed with the cops, and I don't know how many of them worked with Denise on this. If I call Nate, the Koreans can get his number and location."

"So we are all alone here?" There was a tremble in her voice now, and he couldn't stand it; he turned around. He immediately wished he hadn't. There was enough light to see her: wrapped in too big a jacket, pale as a ghost, and scared to death.

_Trust me_ died on his lips. She had trusted him, and that got her into this. He couldn't tell her he would get her out of this – he simply didn't know. He had been lucky when he fought the first Korean, only that. One down, nine to go. At least nine. And what would happen when – if – he managed to find some safe place? He had to tell her that her life was ruined, that she was a target for every enemy he'd made in his life.

"We are not alone," he said, tearing his gaze from her. "We have a strong Interpol force with us."

He turned around and continued walking, too drained even to feel despair.

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She couldn't follow his pace, and she didn't know how he managed to keep it, but she had to. For his every step, she had to make two smaller, quicker ones. They were going up and down, up and down, and everything blurred into one giant breathless pain.

She started to stumble. He noticed, and slowed down a bit.

She wanted to hurry, to show him that she could follow him, but there wasn't any strength left. It happened, exactly as she had told him; she was slowing him down.

She slipped three steps in a row, and a long branch whipped her across the face. Cursing would demand too much oxygen, so she just rubbed her forehead.

When she looked at the warm drops of blood on her fingers, a memory hit her like a blow to the stomach. Min-Jung's mischievous smile flashed before her eyes; a red hole in her head. She staggered to the nearest tree and bent, clutching her ribs as her breathing sped up. She'd forbade herself to cry since they'd left the house, but this couldn't be stopped. A wail built in her chest and she covered her mouth; only a small meow escaped. She had snapped at Min-Jung in the house. _They are just doing their jobs_, Sterling's words returned, and she choked on them. That young woman died because of-

"Flo?" Eliot stood above her; he'd put Sterling down again.

"M-Min-Jung," she managed to stutter; her teeth clattered uncontrollably.

"Take your time. We'll stop," he said. "I'll go to check this area in front of us. Sit and don't move."

She couldn't move even if she'd wanted to. She almost screamed, but she knew if she screamed she wouldn't be able to stop. She watched him leave and disappear after only two steps.

She needed him now. She needed to sneak into his arms and forget everything. The ache to feel his arms around her throbbed like a real pain in her muscles.

He didn't tell her anything about those Koreans, but she saw his fight. Two shadows of the same speed, same skill, same deadly precision. They were as good as he was, and there were many of them. There was a disturbing chance that both of them would be dead by dawn; and why the hell did she still insist on this charade? The thought he might die thinking she didn't want him was, somehow, worse than the mere thought of him dying.

_Because of this_. Because she was curled on the ground and sobbing her heart out, and he had to stop because of her. Because there was a chance they reached that lake and he left her there, or sent her home, or gave her to Maddox, something, _anything_, just so he could finally continue on his own and return to the team. Future without him meant he would have that future.

Min-Jung maybe had a boyfriend who was now receiving the call that she died. Their future was destroyed; they had none.

"We have to move." Eliot returned.

She nodded, than remembered he couldn't see that, tried to think of something to say.

"Ah, what the hell…" His whisper sounded irritated; he knelt beside her and grabbed her in a tight embrace. "It's okay to cry. Take your time, I'll just hold you. Nothing more."

She clutched at him with all her strength and cried her heart out, safe in that iron cage of his arms; for Min-Jung and all her lost years, and for two of them and their love.

"I'm sorry to interrupt this sweet moment - _again_," a faint British voice from their left said. She heard a low growl brewing in the chest under her cheek. "But I think we need to talk about-"

One iron bar from her back disengaged and darted; he hit Sterling with the back of his palm, in a broad slap. Sterling just toppled backwards, and said no more.

That stopped her tears.

"You probably shouldn't have done that," she whispered. "Maybe he could walk now."

"Yeah, I know." He sighed. For a second his arms squeezed her so tight that her breath escaped from her lungs; she felt his face in her hair. The next moment he released her. "It's an automatic reaction in his presence," he said getting up, leaving her by the tree. He bent over Sterling. "Yeah, out cold."

She scrambled on her feet. She was still shaking, but she knew she could hide it and continue.

"Wait," Eliot stopped her when she took her first step. "We have level terrain before us. Meadows, thickets, no more climbing up, at least for an hour."

That sounded better, almost manageable. But his voice was tense. "That's good, right?" she asked.

She feared his hesitations, while he thought of what and how to say to her. This one wasn't an exception.

"Yeah, that's good." His voice was soft. "We'll have more space for walking, we'll spread. You'll go ten feet left of me, okay, and keep that distance, so I always know where you are."

"Sure." She watched him heave Sterling over his shoulder again; every time he did that, his movements were slower, more pained. If he was able to carry almost double his weight, she should be able to drag her own sorry ass with the same speed.

She psyched up, and marched.

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They climbed down, leaving a thick forest behind. The moon flashed again, and the land below them glistered. At first she thought they were headed for a snow, but though the night was cold, snow wasn't very likely. When her foot touched the first meadow, she knew what crunched under her heel. Hoarfrost. Foggy days accumulated a thin layer of frozen crystals; every blade of grass was coated. Mist still lingered, crawling low under groves scattered around glades.

She touched one branch with tiny leaves sprinkled with silver and moonlight; the ice crystals crumbled under her fingertips. Her breath, visible in the cold, touched them and they melted.

"Hurry up!" Eliot was already fifty feet in front of her, and it seemed his pace was twice as fast as when climbing down the steep hill.

"Coming!" She could catch up, her heart felt lighter in this beauty. The damp, soggy forest filled with darkness and fear was behind them now. She turned around to look at the hills they'd left; this side of the hills was full of flashlights. The chase felt closer.

She hurried after Eliot, and in the moment she stepped onto the silvery meadow, she knew why he had told her to stay ten feet to the side of him.

This beauty was deadlier than a minefield. The two of them were black, moving shapes in the moonlight. And that meant that he had crosshairs on his back to every local deer hunter with a gun in Maddox's chase.

He chose the path that went from thicket to thicket, trying to keep them as covered as he could, but they were surrounded by meadows which they had to cross if they didn't want to lose time going around. Going around would lessen their advantage.

There was a black, high line in front of them. The hills again. They could reach it in an hour.

She kept silent, to left of him and a little behind. Then, a little more behind. He couldn't see her without turning around. Encouraged, she slid right behind his back, between him and the view from the hills, and-

"Nope."

She sighed. He didn't even look in her direction. "They won't shoot if your hostage is near."

"Nope. Get back to the left."

"But-"

"The day may come when I'll use a woman as a shield from bullets. Do you think this is that day?"

She huffed and returned to his left side.

They continued in silence; only frost crunched under their feet.

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She didn't see the chase advancing from their right side, too, and Eliot had no intentions of telling her that. She couldn't walk faster, anyway. The groups walking on the frosted grass didn't need their flashlights, and no beams of light could give him an early warning. Only thing he could do was to keep as many trees and bushes as possible between them and the groups of tracking parties who were already in this lower part.

The fog helped. It stayed in layers and patches, not moving, and they went in and out of it. He used it to avoid one group that came dangerously close. For ten minutes they all walked side by side, divided only by a line of trees and fog, until he found a good spot to turn more to the left and increase the distance.

They were no more than a few hundred yards from the end of that valley, when another group stumbled upon them through pure luck. Without any previous warning he heard a muttered curse, when someone slipped. Very near.

He changed direction mid-step. "Closer." His whisper reached only Florence. She hurried to him.

He led her aside, heading for a line of short trees. He pushed them all under the bushy willows growing along a small stream.

They slid six feet down the steep bank, and willows closed above them. His feet almost touched the water. Fog rose from the shallow creek, and the banks were black. No frost on them. They were well hidden as long as their dark clothes melted into the soil.

"Can we stay here?" Florence whispered. He felt hope in her words. Lying down - though ground wasn't flat, they were more leaning on that bank than lying - after this much walking must've felt like bliss for her.

"No," he said. He had to hold Sterling with his right hand so the man wouldn't slide into the stream, but his left pushed her head down, below ground level. "Do you have anything in that backpack to cover your hair?" Pale gold could be seen even through the mass of branches.

She wriggled out of the backpack, but he held her hand to stop her. The group emerged from the fog. She froze when she saw them.

"Catch up, Jonas. Fatty here is faster than you," he heard a voice.

"You go on." Another voice, probably _Jonas_, replied. "I'll take a leak and rest my ankle a bit."

"Don't be stupid. Wandering out here alone is dange-"

"C'mon, he's gone. And I'll join the others."

"Fine." The voice said something more, but it was clearly spoken to the others in the group, while they continued walking. The words were indecipherable.

One minute passed and their crunching steps vanished, covered by a humming.

"You were careful with your steps, choosing the thickest layers of frost," the voice said. "They didn't pay attention. But you couldn't hide them all; I saw them enough on the ground."

Florence gasped and turned to him; he put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her down. She slid on her belly one foot below the edge.

"The cops are gone. I'm alone here, and I'm not bluffing and fishing; I know you're there. Talk to me before some other group comes this way."

"Fair enough," Eliot said. "In a second."

He leaned to Florence and his lips touched her cheek. "If he kills me, I will kill him," he breathed in her ear. "Don't ask me to explain. Remember everything I say to him, and his answers, word for word, and repeat it to Sterling. Stay with him, he will get you out of this."

Her wide-open eyes flashed, catching the reflection of light off the stream. He took her hand and put it on Sterling's jacket, until her frozen fingers caught it and held.

He crawled out of the tiny ravine. Jonas stood at the end of a clearing. No gun in his hands.

"You accent is impeccable," Eliot said. "I myself never managed to come close to that Boston accent, as you can hear. What's your offer?"

"You come with us, and we let them go alive."

"Instead of letting them go dead?" He took two more steps closer to him. "Why would you let them go? They will tell everything to the police. Denise will be compromised."

"Denise served her purpose. One less person sharing half a million dollars."

"You don't have any weapons."

"I don't need any."

And that was it. If Florence remembered everything, Sterling would have all the details about the Koreans' actions, and he would know what to do.

This man's confidence wasn't empty bragging. The Korean sprinted toward him without warning, an elusive shadow at full speed, and pain exploded.

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This was worse than when she watched him fight without knowing which one he was. Now she saw every hit he received, his every fall. _His slowing down_.

She let go of Sterling and pulled a root that was protruding from the bank into the stream; it broke with a sharp crack, leaving a foot long club with a sharp end.

She scrambled upwards to peek at the fight again. Eliot was staggering back under a series of quick hits, and she darted forward.

Something clutched her leg and she plowed the bank with her nose. She stopped sliding, coughed and spit out soil.

"Don't," Sterling whispered.

She shook off his hand. "Stay down, you-"

"The Korean won't pay any attention to your club. The only one distracted will be Spencer. You'll kill him with that."

She stopped. She knew he was right, but- A sharp cracking sound coming from the fight, the same as when she pulled out the root, cut her thoughts short. The air from her lungs escaped in a sob.

"Help me up," he said, reaching with his hand. She pulled. His shoes were in the stream; now he found leverage and crawled up so his head was over the edge of the bank.

"Naaah, he's doing fine." He ducked down again, and rested his good shoulder against the bank. He closed his eyes, and that stopped her from swinging the club and hitting him. "Tell me what's going on," he said when she moved. "Don't look. There's nothing you can do. If he gets killed, I have to know everything, to get us out of this."

If they killed him, she didn't _want_ to get out of this. She opened her mouth to speak, but the sounds of something slamming into flesh stopped.

She held the club tighter, took one long breath, and forced herself to look. This time he didn't stop her.

Both Eliot and his opponent kneeled in the hoarfrost, facing each other. Each of them had one hand on the ground, which kept them upright.

She counted ten thundering heartbeats, almost paralyzed, before his opponent's hand gave way. He toppled sideways.

That moved her; she scrambled up the bank and ran to Eliot.

Moonlight wasn't enough to see his face clearly, but she saw no marks or bruises; no blood. Yet, his half-there eyes had trouble focusing on her.

"We have to get out of the open." She reached out to him but stopped, too scared to touch him. "Move, Eliot!"

"Yep," he said and looked down, at his hand on the ground. He used it to push himself up, as if seeing it reminded him it was still there.

She stepped into his arms the moment he swayed and walked with him, step by step, supporting him until they reached their hiding place. He lost his balance; she caught his jacket to stop him from diving face first into the stream. He was too heavy for her, but she managed to turn him before letting him go; he slid with his back against the bank, and remained upright. She crawled down after him.

His eyes were closed. He clutched his chest with his left arm; he breathed through his nose, controlled, slowly. She had seen him breathing through pain before; she could only pray that those bones she'd heard breaking weren't his.

"Welcome back," Sterling said. "Now-"

She opened her mouth to stop Sterling, but it was too late. Eliot's elbow hit him directly in the bruise she'd made under his eye. Both of them slid down, and she surged and grabbed them.

"Enough of that crap!" She hissed at Eliot's face. She let go of him, and kept Sterling upright, feeling her own shoes soaking in ice-cold water.

Eliot didn't even open his eyes. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that," he slurred the words.

"You'll have to carry him again!"

"In a minute," he said. He didn't even notice he was leaning to the left. She spat a curse and shoved her club into the ground next to him; it stopped him.

She stood in the stream, keeping two idiots upright, and for the first time tonight, her fear dissolved, replaced by anger.

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"Wake up, or I'll push your head in the stream!"

Words were followed by light slapping; Sterling felt every slap like a hammer hit. That made him open his eyes into one very pissed gaze. Florence's face was pale and smeared with mud, and her eyes were frantic.

He raised his hand to show her he was there. Her face disappeared, and he looked around.

He wasn't sure what was worse; to look at Eliot Spencer's murderous rage glare, or into his unfocused and half-conscious one. To be on the receiving end of a combination of those two… that was an experience he had really hoped he wouldn't ever see.

He grinned.

Only then he saw it was clutching his jacket below his neck, holding him against the steep bank.

"Speak." Spencer's low growl made the hairs on Sterling's neck stand up.

"Thank you for saving my life." Sterling changed his grin into a smile. Spencer's expression didn't change a bit, nor did Sterling expect it to. "Why are we still here?" Sterling was sure he had been out cold for more than few minutes. Ah, that explained the unfocused part of it – the hitter had to recover enough to walk. Sterling had never thought of Spencer as a very fast thinking person, but taking this long to decipher words was slow even for Spencer. He visibly processed the question. Just to test, Sterling continued. "I think we should concentrate on the matters on hand, and talk about other problems later, when we're out of this. How many Koreans have you seen? Do you have any new info?"

Yep, he was right; Spencer couldn't follow him. He wasn't in a good shape himself, either – when Spencer released him and he had to keep his own weight upright, he found the bank very useful. Everything danced around him, and pain throbbed through his shoulder.

"Florence." Spencer nodded in his direction and assumed the same stance leaning against the bank.

Much to Sterling's surprise, Florence engaged in a recital of the exchange between Eliot and the Korean. When she finished, his blood was as cold as his feet were.

"Bloody. Hell." He said only that, thinking.

"What?" Florence asked – she watched both of them in turns. Spencer finally changed the intensity in his eyes – they were duller, but not less disturbing.

Sterling rubbed his forehead. Several headaches fought for dominance inside it. "Impeccable accent. This is not a raid sent on a special task from Korea to collect a bounty. We have a sleeper cell. Who knows how long…" He trailed off when Spencer smirked. He concentrated. "They weren't raised here – this man's wording was weird. English isn't his native language, though he can pass as a second generation Korean."

"Is that a good or a bad thing?" Florence asked.

"Bad. No records of arrival in the country, and long experience with hiding their tracks. We have nothing to search for."

"They were trained in North Korea, not here," Spencer said.

"So, that means they were in the East on a long vacation in the last ten years, along with seventy-five thousand, five hundred and forty-two and a half other people! Impossible to check all of them." His snarl cost him; they blurred before him and he had to blink to stay conscious. "But the bounty is on you alive; they aren't using guns so they don't kill you. That's a good thing. The two of us, on the other hand…" He glanced at Florence. "We are in their way. It takes years and years to train an excellent agent like Denise– she is a valuable asset. He was bluffing; they won't risk losing her while they can silence the only two people who know the truth about her."

She flinched. She raised her eyes to Spencer; the hitter pretended he didn't notice that.

"If I managed to catch you, I was thinking about delivering you to Myanmar," Sterling said. "I didn't know about this bounty, and even if I did… what the hell did you do? Those guys have no morals, no boundaries, no mercy. They recognize no laws but their own; they are as evil, twisted and diabolical as they come! They follow orders blindly – they will never stop hunting you. And us."

That annoying smirk danced on the hitter's lips again. Spencer knew something more, and he wasn't going to share it.

"You speak about delivering him…" Florence said, the confusion in her eyes heading to that _where's-my-chair?_ expression. She looked at Spencer. "How can you speak with him normally? He isn't to be trusted! He tried to kill you."

"That's something he does, from time to time," Spencer said. "You get used to it after a while."

"Yeah, you get used to being punched, too," Sterling added, rubbing his forehead again. "As I said – we have to get out of this. Everything else can wait."

The look in Florence's eyes showed him it would take much more to convince her. But he had more important things on his mind than her worries and doubts.

"How many of them are on our tail?"

"I took two down," Spencer said. "At least eight to go."

Sterling eyed him, taking note of his stiffness, blurred eyes and pain; it was amazing he lived through those first two encounters at all. The third time he would go down. Spencer's eyes narrowed; he watched Sterling watching him. This time he wasn't smirking. Spencer was many things, but a fool he wasn't. He knew the odds.

"Yes," Sterling said. "Piece of cake. Do you have a plan, or do you want me to take over?"

The murderous glare returned in a flash. "The last time you took over-"

"No, don't start with that shit. Petty troubles. You need someone skilled in investigations and searches if you want to live through this."

"Also, someone who is a good judge of character?"

He waved the sting away. "They are professionals, Spencer, not a vase to retrieve by busting heads! We have no means to find their base-"

Spencer turned away in the middle of his sentence, climbed up the bank and disappeared.

Florence pulled out her club from the ground, and smiled at him. He rolled his eyes; he was pretty sure she had been normal; a TV person, famous and all – she should've been despairing about her broken nails. But this one was equally as crazy as Spencer was, and all of Leverage.

"Violence is not the answer, you know," he said. "He will ruin you."

"It depends on who is asking the question," she grinned at him. "Are you asking the question, Sterling?"

Spencer's return spared him. The hitter showed him a few black-ish smudges on the back of his palm, then took a phone out of his pocket and took pictures.

"What are you doing?" Florence asked before Sterling was forced to do the same.

"Jonas' fingerprints in blood."

"Good thinking, but I can't tell who of my agents is clear. Right now, I can't trust any of them, until we prove differently."

"And there's no signal here," Florence added.

"These are for Hardison."

He just nodded. Spencer was arrested without his phone. They found the destroyed SIM card in the house, which meant this phone had been stolen. Some of the cops had been robbed – and as soon as they were done with this, he would check the calls and messages. Tracking them to Hardison would be easy.

"I'm not _that_ stupid, Sterling," Spencer said.

He hid his annoyance in a glare. "You have no other way to send those pictures to him."

Again, _that_ smirk.

If they lived through this, fighting _mano a mano_ with Eliot Spencer's mind – a thing he'd never really tried before – could be interesting.

Spencer put the phone in his pocket. "Prepare for walking." He waved to Florence to go first. "We'll use this ravine to take us up to the hills. It'll hide us from guns most of the time."

Florence took her club, he noticed. Spencer followed her, not checking to see if he could follow or not.

He turned around to look at the dark mass of hills from which they had come.

"Spencer," he called.

The hitter turned around.

"Thank you," he said.

This time, he got a small nod as an answer.

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	8. Chapter 8

The Kryptonite job – Chapter 8

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_Splash, squeak. Splash, squeak_.

Eliot counted their steps behind him. It felt like the sounds echoed through the hills, drawing every living being towards them. He knew that wasn't the case. It was only his strained nerves reacting on every impulse.

Both Florence and Sterling had stepped into that creek where they'd been hiding. Their shoes were already soaked, so he'd decided to use it, and continue through the water that would cover their tracks. If one Korean had noticed their steps on the frost- covered grass, the others would too.

"This creek will lead us to Stickney Brook," he said to the two shadows behind him.

"What the hell is Stickney Brook?" Sterling said.

"The thin blue line on Florence's map. The creek connecting Sunset Lake and the Connecticut River."

"Marvelous. What about it?"

"There are several cottages on the lake. They are probably full only on weekends, but even now there'll be at least one with a land line, and a car."

_Splash, squeak. Splash, squeak_.

So, that was how Sterling's thinking really sounded.

He couldn't hear Flo behind them. If there weren't occasional thumps of her club, which she used as a walking stick on slick stones, he wouldn't know if she was there or not.

He'd had trouble filing her under _Finished_ even when she had been in another hemisphere. Now, only ten steps away, it was impossible. All his senses were turned back, to her, instead of to the full circle around him.

That shit had to stop; they were heading into more open terrain before they reached the hills again, and he had to concentrate. The banks on either side weren't as good a cover as they'd were when they started. Every hundred yards the banks grew lower, and soon they'd be level with the terrain, leaving the three of them exposed again. He needed to hurry, but his pace was already too fast for an exhausted woman and a wounded man.

He could continue this way for three more days; his mind was set on survival mode, conserving the amount of strength he needed for walking. And he needed every ounce of it to lock the pain down. The fight with the last Korean almost depleted all of his reserves. He'd been damn close to going down – in the end, only one hit decided which one of them would stay on the ground. The Koreans were trained to kill and incapacitate; they weren't just blindly pummeling their opponents. Every hit he received damaged his joints, tendons, muscles. He was slower. Every move _hurt_. He took inventory while walking, searching for broken bones and internal injuries, but he was lucky. At least for now. A third encounter might finish differently, and that set a slow, creeping dread in his mind. The moment he went down, Flo and Sterling were dead.

He gritted his teeth and hurried.

He kept twenty feet of distance between him and the two of them, and the pale moonlight wasn't strong enough to let him see how they really coped without any rest. One thing he could see, though. Every time he turned around to check on them, she avoided his eyes, lowering her gaze to the water.

He stopped turning around.

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The first bullet hit the bank only one foot from his elbow, and Eliot ducked.

"Stay there!" His warning wasn't needed – Sterling caught Florence and held her down, below the edge of the bank.

Two more bullets whizzed above his head, and Eliot heard shouts. The shooter was on their right, in a thicket. Not an expert, not alone, and not in experienced company.

Eliot ran thirty yards away from Flo and Sterling, and bullets followed him. He ducked again, below the edge of the bank, when the shooter caught up with his steps. "Wave to them just in case! You're hostages. Show them you're glad they're here!"

Sterling obeyed. Eliot moved a few yards farther away, just to show the entire group that he was the bad guy they were searching for. "I'll draw them away – you continue up the stream. If they stop you, stay with them. These are not cops. I'll return to get you out before the cops come."

"How do you know these are locals and not cops?" Sterling asked from the ravine.

Sure, now was the time for chit-chat. He cursed the bastard inwardly, as three more bullets plowed the bank above his head. "It's a Remington Sendero SF II, Beanfield Sniper – it's a very distinctive sound. Best deer gun for long, accurate shots."

"Bullshit. You can't possibly – What if there's only one local in a group of cops? Sprinkled with three Koreans on top?"

"The cops would never reveal their positions by shouting all over the thickets."

"Even better – one local hillbilly, and four Koreans who are shouting to deceive us?"

Or maybe he could go back and kill the Interpol bastard first, before he drew the others away from Florence. "The Koreans wouldn't join a group of locals," he said. He peered over the bank, careful not to disturb any branches. The shouts were closer, and now he could see shapes running towards the stream. No time for chatting. "You're the smart one, figure out why." With that, he surged up and sprinted across the open field, counting seconds. After three, he changed direction. A bullet whizzed close. The Sendero was a heavy rifle, and a shooter needed a good stand for support. A target going quickly to the left or right would add a second to readjusting the aim. If the shooter had a scope, it was one more second for searching for him again, after he turned.

The field wasn't that big, and only four shots followed him before he reached the bushes on the other end and plunged face first into the leaves under them. The bullets sprayed the trees above him, blindly searching, and he stayed down.

A pause showed him that the shooter thought he was either dead or that already at the other end of the woods. Either way, the shooter would join the others.

He got up. Nothing happened.

He turned right, making a circle, and went back.

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"Horrible, horrible, I say!" Sterling held his hand on his heart while speaking with the three guys that gathered around them. Florence couldn't not think that his show was a little exaggerated. "You don't have a signal either? Bloody shame. Can you tell me where the nearest group of cops is? No?"

She rubbed her forehead with both palms. As a hostage saved from deadly danger, she sat on a rock, her elbows on her knees, pretending to be shocked and overwhelmed with gratitude. Just for a moment, she covered her ears to silence Sterling's voice and the gunshots, which brought much needed calm. But not for long; she had to hear what was going on.

"And yes, I insist – you have to proceed after him, that'll be the best help. I saw him staggering; he is hit, and if you press now, you will be the ones who caught the killer. We'll be safe here and wait for your return. Leave us a first aid kit, and that bottle this fine young man is carrying. The lady is in shock. That will warm her up."

She couldn't stop the trembling waves that came up from her wet feet, freezing her whole.

The men cleared out.

"I bet you miss your blanket now." Sterling's voice sounded normal now. He stood over her, watching her slumped on the rock. Even thinking about straightening up was exhausting – just like the surge of hate that rushed through her when she looked at his half-smiling face.

"I miss my chair," she said.

_I miss our yesterday_.

And worst of all, this wasn't entirely his fault. Hating him was so much easier than admitting that all three of them had brought this upon them. She was the one he'd used; she was the reason Eliot was stuck here, instead of already far away. And Eliot…she couldn't even start on all the shit in his life that he'd dragged after him.

It was foolish to think they could've made it, to hope their love stood a chance.

"We have to go," Sterling said. He handed her a small package and a bottle that the guys had left. She put them in her backpack. He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but changed his mind and looked away. Good. She didn't want him to see the angry tears that filled her eyes.

Freezing water bit at her ankles again when she stood up. She needed a distraction from the hate, from listening to the chase, from the cold and the shaking, so she asked, "Why did he say that the Koreans wouldn't join the locals, but only the police?"

Sterling gallantly let her pass before him. "The answer is in the question: why did they join any group at all? They'd split up. It seems illogical, doesn't it? If they'd stayed together and found us, Spencer wouldn't last five seconds."

"Answer, Sterling. You really like the sound of your voice." And while saying that, she realized he needed the distraction more than she did. He had a hole in his shoulder, and he was maybe more chilled than she was because of the blood loss.

"Phones with no signal," he said. "Only the police have radios and communication sets. A few of the Koreans joined the police groups to have the reports of our position first-hand; the rest of them probably hunt alone or in one group."

The memory of a silent silhouette on their trail sent a shiver through her, but she concentrated on the stream and protruding stones. She still had the shoes she'd worn at the Convention. Comfortable with low heels, good for a full day of standing and sitting – but not so good for muddy forest paths and creeks. Wet leather gnawed at her skin. She would leave a blood trail behind her very soon.

They walked in silence for five minutes. She listened to every sound, trying to hear where Eliot was. No sound was a good sign. If he got caught or killed, they would be calling and cheering, right? Or not, she answered herself. He could have been hit while evading bullets and be lying somewhere, without any help. The damn creek mocked her desperation, murmuring nonsense around her feet; it covered the distant sounds.

They were far away from the flickering flashlights in pursuit. If Eliot was drawing them away, he was doing a good job. In another five minutes the lights were swallowed by the forest at the other end of the valley and disappeared completely.

But so did their creek. It didn't stop, but the banks leveled with the terrain, and the creek rushed under a thick, impenetrable mess of low trees and thorny bushes. No way could they go under that.

"We'll have to go around this thicket and find where water comes out," Sterling said.

She turned around to the waste land around them. "We can't leave the creek. He won't be able to find us."

Sterling said nothing. He took a few steps to the side, to the first tree, and sat there. She almost growled at him to get up, but bit her lip on time. That sitting down looked more like a stopped fall. Sitting by him would give her a few precious minutes to catch her breath.

She found a half-rotten log and carefully sat. "You could've stayed with the rescue party," she said. "What would've happen if you had?"

"They would have carried me back," he said. She was right – his voice was weak, almost a whisper. "Or call the paramedics with a stretcher, in the middle of this. Both would take time. We would meet other groups, some of them with the Koreans. Or my agents who might be working with them like Denise was. Either way, I would be dead before we reach civilization again – and maybe that entire group, too. The same goes for you." He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the tree. "I would trust only Maddox," he continued after a few moments of silence. "But I wouldn't trust his ability to protect us from killers – not from the Koreans. They would find a way."

But he trusted Eliot, she realized. This _was_ some strange sort of trust.

Maybe it was the moonlight that gave that ghostly nuance to his skin. She was close enough to see how hard he shivered. She wore Eliot's jacket, and a huge cop's jacket over that, and she was frozen; Sterling, only in a shirt and suit jacket, must've been hypothermic by now.

Her hatred crawled into the back of her mind, and she sighed. "Take off that suit," she said, taking her backpack.

"Why?"

"From now on, first do what I say, then ask questions." She slid of the backpack, suppressing a bitter smile at the memory her words brought. He huffed something under his breath, but, clearly too weak to argue, did what she said.

She had two more t-shirts in there. Both red. One with the Japanese character for 'wolf'. Her fingers caressed it for a second. No, no way she would give him the first t-shirt she'd bought for Eliot. _And probably the last_.

She took the other one, which had a different Japanese character on the front. "Put this over your shirt. When you button your jacket, one more layer will keep the warmth better."

He eyed both t-shirts and flinched. "Can I have the other one?"

"No, you can't; that one is Eliot's. Why?"

"Yeah, Sterling, tell her why."

She almost dropped both t-shirts in the mud when she heard Eliot's voice behind them. He stepped from the bushes closer to them; no holes in his shirt, no blood, but no smile either. At least not for her. When he looked at Sterling he smirked.

"It isn't a real word," Sterling said. "Japanese doesn't define-"

Eliot's smirk grew evil. "It isn't _ookami_, it's _mesu ookami_."

"Who would put that on a t-shirt? It's used only for veterinarian purposes!"

"Keep telling yourself that."

She watched that quick exchange, not following it, but she said, "You're arguing about the t-shirt? _Now_? What's wrong with you?"

Eliot waved his hand to his shirt. "Mine says _wolf_ – his has a kanji for _bitch_. She-wolf."

Sterling's voice grew stronger. "As I said, the Japanese language doesn't define gender for animals … What the hell, think what you want." He put the shirt over his head, fighting with it with only one hand.

She shook her head and decided to say nothing. This half-mocking smirk was the closest thing to a smile that had showed on Eliot's face for a long time, and she wanted it to last.

Yet, the moment she thought that, he looked at her and it faded. "Give me the map and all flashlights I gave you," he said.

He had taken three flashlights from the first group he fought. He took two from her and handed one to Sterling, keeping the third for himself. "Keep 'em ready. You'll need 'em. We're changing direction." He opened a map and covered the bulb with his hand. A diffuse light was enough for them to see letters. "When this group reports to Maddox, he will have our second confirmed position."

"The second?" Sterling asked.

"You were out through the first encounter with the cops and the first Korean. I dealt with all of them, hence the map and the flashlights. Here and here. " Eliot touched the map two times and then drew a straight line through both dots with his finger. "Maddox will send all the cops to this line, anticipating our direction. If we continue north, they will wait for us. We're taking a sharp turn west, directly to the lake."

"Why flashlights?" said Sterling.

"Rough terrain."

"How long?"

"Three hours at least."

Florence raised her hand, and both men turned to her. "That lake," she said. "That will end this? You'll get us a car, and we'll first put some distance between us and the chase, and then go our separate ways?" It took one hell of an effort to say it with a casual note in her voice. She kept her gaze on Eliot, pretending she didn't see his face slowly freezing. "The Koreans don't know where to find you, and as soon as you're gone, and far away from this weasel who brought them with him, they'll give up." She spared one glance at Sterling now, but it seemed his attention – and a whole lot of it – was directed at Eliot, not her.

The silence that fell after her words felt heavy.

Eliot was the first to break it. "There might not be a car," he said slowly. "We'll talk about everything when we get there and see."

That wasn't the answer to her question; that was evading it. He diverted his eyes from her and she knew he was hiding something. Sterling's narrowed eyes lay heavy on him, as if the agent was waiting for something. Whatever Eliot was hiding from her, Sterling either knew or guessed.

She took one deep breath and exhaled it slowly. "Eliot," she said. "I'm not stup-"

He got up. "We have to go." His voice sounded tired, tired and rough. "Follow me." He started, not waiting to see if they would follow, and she pushed the map into the backpack and jumped to her feet. Sterling was busy buttoning his jacket – or he just kept his head lowered so she wouldn't ask him anything.

"Florence," Sterling called.

She stopped.

"When we reach a place with a signal," he said, "you have to tell him to call Nate. We have no means to deal with the Koreans here, alone. We need help, and I can't trust my team."

"So you can have them all, not only Eliot?"

"You don't know why I was searching for Nate, do you?"

"Eliot knows better than me whether it's safe to call Nate or not, and not only because of the Koreans, but also because of you. It's his decision."

He looked beside her to the darkness where Eliot had disappeared, and lowered his voice. "Spencer is irrational and distraught right now, and we both know why. His decisions might not be the right ones. You won't tell him you played him so he could escape?"

"No, and if you even think of-"

"I won't. But I can tell you one thing: he won't win the next fight with the Koreans. They'll get him, and he will be taken who knows where. And then, when there'll be nothing left to do, you'll be sorry you didn't call Nate when there was still enough time for something to be done."

The snake had recovered – but this time his whispers resonated with her fears. Whatever his motives were, he was right. She was thinking the same – they needed Nate and the team here.

"What is he hiding from me, Sterling?" she asked.

"Whatever it is, it's his decision. And you trust his decisions, as you said. Keep trusting him, and see where it will take you."

Sterling didn't wait for her response; he passed by her and followed Eliot into the darkness.

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If there was one damn thing Sterling didn't expect, it was being caught in the middle of a melodramatic love story with Eliot Spencer as a tragic hero. He cursed his bad luck silently. Annoyance with that shit was helping, though, keeping his mind away from the hole in his shoulder and the lightheadedness that attacked in waves. He couldn't allow himself to faint again; he had to stay awake, present, controlling the situation. Those two were so deeply involved in their love drama that he seriously doubted either of them paid any attention to the cruel facts of this shit.

He could deal with _all kinds of _shit, but he needed to be in it, actively, not carried as a bag over Spencer's shoulder, unconscious and unaware of surroundings.

He was pretty surprised when he realized that he trusted Spencer to get him out of this and not leave him in some ditch with a broken neck – that thought actually crossed his mind only when he dismissed it. Spencer was many things, but he wasn't dishonest. One more death wouldn't mean a lot, knowing his record, but Sterling remembered that he hadn't seen the man kill anybody in those few encounters he'd had with the Leverage team. Maybe that was just an exception to the rule. Maybe it hadn't been needed then.

He reminded himself to press Florence again. He watched her TV show; she wasn't stupid. However, it seemed she had only two modes of operating: tragic sorrow when she watched Spencer, which she thought nobody noticed, and fierce snarkiness – with traces of tragic sorrow – when she was talking to Sterling, the man she blamed for _her_ decisions.

He stumbled. His annoyance with them didn't help in guessing the secure spots to put his feet on. They used the moonlight for now; it wasn't yet time for flashlights. He was falling behind. Too slow.

They both noticed when he almost fell, and they turned to wait for him.

"I'm okay," he snarled at the two silent figures. They just stood there, separated by ten feet of empty space. She clutched her jacket and Spencer stood stiff; they looked in opposite directions, yet when he stepped between them it felt like ripping a shroud of accumulated tension.

He stopped, and looked left, then right. "What an adorable couple you two are." He gloated for a second when they flinched. "When you're happy, I am happy, too." He would have added more, but Spencer slowly tilted his head – and the difference between snarkiness and suicide suddenly blurred. He walked away; the level of discomfort behind him rose ten notches.

Next time they stopped to rest, he would talk about the situation, the plan, logic, logistics – because that was the main plot here, not their soap opera.

Yet, there was one thing that surprised him. When looking at this woman, the Eliot Spencer from his file, the cold muscle with psychopathic tendencies, seemed almost… human.

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Midnight in Portland wasn't Hardison's usual time for sleeping, but he wanted this day to end. Tomorrow, which was Wednesday, promised to be a busy day from the very beginning. He had arranged the first oca delivery as early as he could, just in case.

Switching the days' menus was only a Band-Aid – tomorrow they had to have that damn oca menu ready. If everything went as planned, by six a.m. he would have enough oca for the entire day. Four large boxes could feed half of Portland.

He was just one minute and three steps from joining Parker in the bed, but…there was one more thing he had to check before he went to sleep. He had set a warning to show on his computer in the apartment above the office and brewery. The moment Eliot's phone went online, he would know.

Nate hadn't seemed happy because his hitter was out of reach, but Hardison secretly – and not so secretly – approved. God knew Eliot needed that time without the supervision of the control freak who needed to know everything. Nate would live. Nate would also, if this thing between Eliot and Florence worked, learn to accept it as something normal.

He decided to take a look at his workstations in the office, just in case, to see if a notification of Eliot's status had gotten stuck there amongst all his search results. His algorithms were complicated, and sometimes his own firewalls, specially designed to keep everyone out of his business, could mess up the priorities of the reports.

Parker was sleeping when he silently sneaked out and went downstairs.

He pulled all automatic searches up on the screens and went to check George's dehumidifier. Eliot had set it on high and George looked happy, flexing his shiny leaves just like a human would stretch on a sunny beach.

When he turned to the screen again, to the dozens of Matrix-like streams of data, he momentarily saw that Eliot's line was still red. Nothing surprising; it was about three a.m. Boston time, and if he hadn't turned his phone on before, he wouldn't do it now.

Hardison _wasn't_ worried. Yet Nate's attention to that matter gnawed at him just a little, so he didn't shut everything down and go to sleep. He sat at the working table and zoomed in on all reports that flashed red. Nothing was urgent; all warnings were a low priority, so he scrolled through all the red dots that showed activities of useful people, useful news, code words and key phrases. He had numerous web crawlers scattered all around the internet, reporting anything suspicious.

Everything seemed just fine.

He changed the filter level, to take a look at more results with even lower levels of priority, and this time he didn't set it on scroll; he spread them on the screens and zoomed out, until the screen showed thousands of tiny reports in green.

He squinted at the sea of green that blurred in front of him – the sea of green with tiny, tiny clusters of red.

One move of his hand, and the green disappeared and only red remained, now in full size.

And there it was – a strange, screaming peak in activity on Kim Leske's Facebook page.

It wouldn't be strange if she was a real person and a friend or a relative checked her photos and posts, but she was created only yesterday. Also, nobody had clicked on her pictures of her grandchildren, the books she read, or her crocheting. No, only her posts and pictures about her new cottage were viewed.

He had tagged all the photos he posted on her wall and set up the traps, and now he followed their visitors back to the source.

It didn't take long - not for him - to see which organization had poked at his masterpiece.

He sighed and grabbed the phone. "Nate, we have a situation."

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As dawn drew closer, the weather changed; clouds started to gather faster, and Eliot had to force them all into a faster pace before the moonlight vanished completely. It wasn't yet safe to use the flashlights. They still hadn't reached the deepest part of the forest that would hide their treacherous lights. But without the moon, they would slowly stumble in the darkness, losing too much time.

"We'll rest when we reach that black line," he said, pointing to the shadow at the end of the row of low hills that spread in front of them. "The lake is behind that forest." He didn't expect an answer. Florence was breathless and staggering, and Sterling was half-dead on his feet.

He felt pretty much the same, but he knew what he was doing. If daylight caught them in the open, they were dead. He led them up the hill, following a darker line of trees. A not-so-recent forest fire left a scar in the bushes. The ground was still dark, and the many dead trees gave them good cover. No hoarfrost here.

Yet, they weren't the only ones who thought that using the remains of the forest fire would be a good idea. The flashlights from an incoming group danced in a thicket on their right side, and Florence and Sterling weren't able to run.

He eyed the distance and decided the best way to approach them. "You two take cover, and stay in the darkest part while-"

"Right, slamming into people is your first response to everything," Sterling said. "How about using some brains?"

"How about moving your sorry ass to cover, _now_?"

Sterling pulled out his flashlight before Eliot could stop him and pointed it directly into his eyes for one second. "What the fuck-" He made one step towards the agent, but damage was done.

"Hey, you!" Sterling's voice rose; he waved with his light towards the group. "Is Robert with ya? Robert Wyle?" His accent had changed into a dreadful interpretation of how British people thought Americans sounded. "There's a text message from his mother. A guy in the group behind us has it."

"Are you nuts?" A half-hissed response came from the thicket. "We are in a chase, you idiot! Stop shouting!"

"Geez, okay, no need to get nasty. We just checked this part, and we're going left. This part is clear. You should go back a little and then take the course to the right, if you want to find anything."

"Of course it's clear – now, after your yelling." The voice became quieter. "I told Maddox that calling the locals in would be a mistake." Their lights turned to the right, going away from them.

"And if you see Robert, tell him to call his mother!" Sterling yelled after them. He continued to wave his lamp, as if still searching and walking.

Eliot crossed his arms – okay, stopped halfway there because the movement pulled every hurt joint that the Koreans had so precisely aimed at – and waited for the bastard to stop waving. In the pale light, Sterling's smirk scraped over his last remaining, relatively sane nerve.

"See? Of course, if you want, you can still catch up with them and bust some heads."

"Do that again, and I'll break you in half, wound or no wound."

"Seriously, Spencer, you ought to-"

Eliot glanced at Florence, who stood silently, leaning on a tree. "Those were cops, so there was a chance a Korean was with them." He managed to sound normal, for her. "I know what I'm doing. If I attacked them, it would be under my conditions. Now I can expect an eventual attack if he decides to check on us – this time it's _his_ move, not mine - and that means we have to change our course again, to put some distance between us. Sterling, the two Koreans I fought were better than Quinn."

That silenced the agent for a moment. "That is…not good."

"No, it ain't. I can continue, but it would be extremely helpful if the next fight could be on my conditions."

"What, you plan to deal with this with by simply taking down one Korean after another? Quinn's report was thorough, and I know how close you were to going down. After the fight with him, you had a concussion and two broken ribs. If they are better than he was, and you still have eight of them to fight… That's bollocks. We both know how long you will last. Avoiding, deceiving, and staying the hell out of their way is the only way to live through this, not running through the forest hoping you'll bump into them!"

"That's _your_ plan? Running through the forest hoping you _won't_ bump into them?"

"Spencer, the key word here is forest. All plans should wait until we're out of this."

"And that's the first thing we disagree on."

Sterling finally put the flashlight away and took a step back. No, it wasn't a step back – he swayed and stopped the fall. "We are outnumbered and surrounded." His voice, though, didn't lose the snarl.

"No, they _think_ we are outnumbered and surrounded, and while it lasts, I can do a few useful things – like, let's say, getting rid of them one by one."

"You're going down the next time."

"And that leaves you only seven Koreans to deal with in your genius, non-existent, out-of-forest plan, so don't whine." He looked at Florence again, not really wanting to, but her silence was disturbing. She was slumped by the tree. He couldn't tell what she thought about this. "Now, start walking. We'll make a detour, and return to our path when I'm sure they are far away."

Sterling looked like he was about to add something, but instead he waved his good hand and gave up.

Eliot let him go first. It was clear, from every shaky step, that this conversation had spent a lot of his strength. After only a few yards, his pace faltered. Florence also barely put one foot in front another. He passed by them. "We can go a little slower in the beginning," he said, though everything in him screamed to hurry. But pushing them too hard would only result in more stopping.

He led them to the left, northbound, slowly, before he turned to the west and sped up again.

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"Eliot!" Florence's alarmed whisper stopped him short. He turned around in time to see Sterling hitting the ground, hard. Florence was too slow to stop him; the agent slid a few feet down a muddy slope. A fallen tree with a crown of roots in the air stopped him.

"Stay there, I'll get him." He returned a few steps and dragged Sterling up to rest his back against the tree trunk. A quick check of his bandages showed him that the bleeding hadn't completely stopped. Sterling was tougher than he thought, walking with two holes without any rest.

"I have a first-aid kit." Florence handed him a small package, but he hesitated. In the long term, it would be wise to lose a few minutes now, if it would mean Sterling would be mobile, but this wasn't either the time or the place for messing with those wounds. There was too much mud and rotten things around and on his hands; tetanus was the clear and present danger here. The whiskey bottle that followed from her backpack wasn't enough. He almost told her that alcohol as antiseptic was a lousy cliché. _Almost_.

"I'll only wrap bandages over the patches of t-shirt and tape he already has, to keep it tight and in place." He was busy with Sterling's shirt while saying that, so her silence probably meant she only nodded as a response. He didn't look up to check.

He worked as fast as he could. She turned on a flashlight, directing a narrow beam of light at Sterling's shoulder. The beam trembled.

"Do you have anything more to wear in that backpack?" he asked when he finished with the last piece of bandage.

The light jumped up. "Uhm. No."

He let it go and concentrated on Sterling's jacket, trying to find an irony in the fact that he was dressing him – but even that couldn't divert him from her presence. She stood above him, only one step away, and everything was full of _her_.

The backpack was on the ground by his knees; he took it before she could stop him. And he immediately regretted it. She had packed a couple of sandwiches in it – and their afternoon in the kitchen flashed before his eyes. The red shirt; the elephant hat. The hat was the last thing he needed to see – and remember.

"You should put the hat on, you're freezing." He managed to say that with the same tone he would use when asking her to turn off the flashlight. Of course he knew why she hadn't done it already.

"No, I'm okay." A small hand – and white, cold fingers – darted to the backpack and took the hat. "He needs it more than I do." She put the hat on Sterling's head and tied it.

And he couldn't think of anything to say on that.

He didn't know how to talk to her anymore. Everything except short directions was too personal; every word evoked something from previous days. Hell, who was he kidding? He didn't need words to return him there.

Kneeling in the mud and avoiding raising his head to see her seemed to be a good tactic in the beginning. It surely dulled his need to take her in his arms, a need so strong that it made him forget the pain and weakness – but every moment of this silence was harder to endure. There was only the two of them. They simply stood, not moving, not talking.

Very soon, he would have to talk to her, and tell her everything that was waiting for her. The creeping dread grew until he couldn't take it anymore.

He jumped to his feet and picked up the unconscious man, paying no attention to the pain that every move shot through his arms and chest.

He could only hope that he would have enough blind rage to fuel him to the lake.

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The rest of their trip drifted by her in a fog. Deep down Florence knew it didn't last more than an hour, but Eliot set an insane pace. She had to almost run to catch up. She had no breath to cry.

Her spleen sent stabbing pain through her side after the first climb, and it hadn't stopped since. The club she carried became a crutch that held her upright.

Every step was a sharp pain; her feet were in agony, and her strained muscles throbbed. Never before had she lived through something like this crazy race; the madman before her was blind to everything except the next step. She could feel his fixation on the black line of tall trees where they were heading, a line that grew before them faster than she could have imagined. All her strength was spent by simply putting one foot before the other, and she was numb, and desperate, and just a little more conscious than the man he carried.

The sky went greyish, and the distant flashlights in pursuit faded.

She fell three times. Eliot didn't notice, didn't stop to wait for her, and that terrified her. And she could only hope that his rage would burn out in this struggle, before they reached their finish line, or at least it would turn to her, its main source. She would welcome his anger and pain, if only it meant he would calm down before he had to do anything.

They reached the forest when the sky was dangerously light. Eliot didn't stop when the thick roof above them hid them, and her last hope, that he hurried just because he wanted to reach this cover before the dawn, slowly faded. No, this was a destruction spree and she had seen it before, in Nate's apartment in Boston. That time he smashed the window with his bare hand, until the glass was in small shards. Now he had nothing to fight, nothing to release the accumulated rage – and she saw no calming.

They were hidden now, and darkness was once again engulfing her. Eliot was just a blurred dark shape amongst the others, and the tears didn't help in clearing her vision. Following him became impossible.

Right at the moment she thought she would give up, she almost stumbled on him.

He had laid Sterling down, and he knelt beside him, in the same position he had when he'd fought Jonas. That Korean had been a trouble. But this time Eliot looked more wasted; he could barely breathe.

Her legs shook. She trotted towards them and dropped in the mud. The last time Sophie was there to calm him down and help him. She wasn't Sophie. Her breaths came out in ragged sobs, and that sound pulled his head up. His eyes locked on her, fierce, in silent agony.

"Are we- are we there yet?" she managed to utter a few words. He waved his head to their left; he wasn't able to speak. She followed his gaze, and yes, there was something lighter in the trees, at their level. Too low to be the sky. _The lake_. Only a hundred yards away.

A moan and a movement broke her gaze. Sterling opened his eyes. One more who couldn't speak; he drifted in and out, clearly trying to stay awake.

She was too stunned to feel despair, but now, watching them all there in the mud, the reality hit her hard. Their situation was hopeless. Eliot was running on fumes. This last push, carrying Sterling, crushed him completely, and she, too, was a useless burden.

"If I were there…" Sterling's whisper was barely audible. "I would set a trap around those houses."

"Yeah, me too." Eliot's voice wasn't any louder. "That's why I'm goin' there."

She caught her breath. And he still hadn't found anything that would disperse this accumulated violence brewing in him; he would go there and fight blindly, and- Her fear grew into panic. She had no way of stopping him, and her mind whirled in a desperate search for something, anything that would erase this suicidal edge from his eyes. The Koreans weren't windows he could smash; he was dead tired, and hurt, and slow…

He looked at her directly now. "Before I go, I have to tell you something."

_No_, _don't, please don't_. "Are they really that good? The Koreans?" She blurted out the first thing she thought. If he had to stop to think, maybe that would slow down this spiral.

"Yeah, they are. Look, Florence…"

"And all of them are as good as you? Or only some of them? Is there a chance the next would be easier to deal with, or the opposite?" _Think. Remember who you are fighting. Remember your odds_.

His eyes didn't stray from her, but the fire in them burned the same. "It's the same training, the same skill, the only difference is…" He looked at the lake and narrowed his eyes. She counted seconds. Even Sterling withdrew; awake, but clever enough not to interrupt this. "The only difference is that they are good in taking people down," Eliot finally said. "I'm good at getting up." He turned his head again to her. "And that means nothing. Because I can't get you out of this."

This was too fast for her sluggish thoughts. One moment she tried to remind him that he wasn't indestructible, and the next he was sliding into defeat. She blinked, and her mind stopped working for a second.

"What?" she whispered.

"If I don't return, you have to know… you can't go back to Boston. The North Koreans know about you, and that information is now on the market. Even if we deal with this here, you're compromised, and the target for every enemy, every bounty hunter, every…" His voice broke; he stopped and took a long breath. "Your life, and your career, are ruined. No more Florence McCoy. We'll have to make a new identity for you, far away from the TV business, more secret than any witness protection program."

She slowly lowered herself and sat in the mud, still staring at him. It was strange how she heard pain bleeding into his words, while her own feelings were dulled. She felt nothing.

A strange sound broke the silence after his words; a frog from the lake.

This was surreal. This last blow caught her unprepared, and added a final shock to the line of earthquakes that shook her core, her life. When she opened her mouth to ask him about her series – her life project – no sound came out. He had already answered her question.

He shouldn't have told her that now. She was so exhausted she wanted to curl up in the mud and cry from the sheer weakness. Exhausted and miserable; one more shock was too much.

"Later," she whispered finally. She needed time to drag herself from this dullness, to think about this.

"No time for…"

"Stop!" The word escaped in a cry. "Just stop talking – I don't want to hear any-"

"You have to! If I don't return, you'll have to know what to do." His hand gripped her shoulder, straightening her up, forcing her to look at him.

_If he doesn't return_? She slammed his hand away, in a desperate refusal of his words, of his strained eyes, of his regret, of his… of everything. The tears erupted, and she didn't want him to see her cry. "Just stop talking," she whispered. Nothing else came to her mind. She backed away, slid on the mud, and brought her knees up. If she curled into a ball, everything would just bounce off of her – she put her forehead on her knees and protected her head with her arms. Silence and darkness, that's what she needed to function again. Just fifteen seconds, to shut her brain down, and restart it, and she would be able to talk to him.

But when she raised her head, only darkness was before her.

He was gone.

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	9. Chapter 9

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 9

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A small road led to the lake and six houses on the northern shore.

Eliot checked the phone he had taken from one of the cops in the first group, a few hours ago. The signal wavered with every step.

Under normal circumstances, he would make a large circle and check all the spots that had a signal strong enough to make a call or go online, but not now when he expected a welcome party. The only question was who was there waiting for him. Maddox and his organized trap, all by the rules? Locals with their long guns and a burning wish to give a heroic statement on the local TV? Or only the Koreans?

Yeah, normally he would pray there were only locals waiting for him because if Maddox's cops were there, the Koreans were likely around, too. But not now.

He didn't really care.

He was distraught to the point of insanity. He wanted only to barge in there, take a car, and kill everyone who stood in his way. Preferably twice. A pulsing rage sped him up and gave him the edge he needed. Only rage could override the exhaustion and physical pain.

The other pain whirled in the spiral; regret and despair raced each other in his heart and in his throat, while he sneaked through the trees closer to the houses.

Fog rose from the water and filled the forest blurring the dawn into a dark grey soup. The moon was gone. No silvery mist hovering over frost here: only the colorless dullness of the end of the night. His shirt wasn't blue anymore. He couldn't see a difference between his sleeve and the leaves and ground. Only grey. A time for ghosts to dance and whisper through the layers that surrounded him. The fog touched his skin with cold, soggy fingers.

A shiver was buried in his bones. Coldness and fatigue took their toll. The hour of carrying Sterling reduced him to a staggering ruin, breathless and in agony – but it was the last few minutes, when they stopped, that finished him. He _had to_ tell her everything, and he knew it would be nasty, but no matter how he tried to steel himself there was no preparation for her backing away from him.

It wasn't the fact that she pushed him away that hurt the most – it was the last look at her curled in a ball of despair that cut through his heart in one precise move, splitting it. All yesterday's plans – her _utterly happy smiles_ that he wanted to see from now on – exploded in his face in a cruel mockery.

A twinkle of color through the branches drew his attention: a lit window casting warm yellow light. Only one window in the six houses spreading along the bank. Some fisherman might be up at this last hour before the dawn, but he knew better. This was a road sign put there for him: _Look, a man with a phone and a car, alone, wrapped in the darkness and fog. Easy prey_. A blue pick-up truck was parked right in front of the main door, so the light from the window showed it clearly. And just in case he missed the light, the alleged fisherman had his TV turned on; folk music played in the background.

He got up and went directly to the window.

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A bottle of whiskey materialized before her eyes and Florence flinched.

"I'm not being nice or comforting," Sterling said. "I only want you to function faster. Take a sip. It will warm you up."

This shit started with him offering her a glass of whiskey six months ago. "No," she said. "And I'm functioning." But her own words sounded empty. She was still shaken, and she knew he could see that.

"Suit yourself." He moved away and returned to the place he sat before, with a tree as a backrest.

It wasn't easy for a wounded man to come to her, and she felt a pang. He might've been a bastard, but the aura of faint discomfort spread around him. His role in destroying her life was huge, and he knew that.

She dropped her forehead on her knees again, and grunted in pain when the scrape on her forehead reminded her to be careful. At least she could think now; her mind managed to override the shock. Damn twists in plots – they were so funny when she made them, but now, when her life got twisted like a soaked rag, cut with scissors, and set on fire… not so much. If this was her episode, she would made it a season finale – no, better, the series finale. She would destroy them all, scatter them, and give them the fresh starts and new lives.

Counting everything she would lose made her brain writhe in pain. Years of yearning and building her name in the business; more than five years of pure joy working on _The Magnificent Seven_; the thrill and excitement, happiness; everything would be lost. She was at the top of her game. She had a new contract for another five years; there was no stopping her.

Until now. She almost laughed; her life just stopped.

The laughter caught in her throat when she realized that stopping never meant death in the TV business – it meant a spin-off. That was before her now; something new, a twist in the plot, nothing more.

She would live. Changes never scared her. The thing that had troubled her the most, before Eliot told her about this, was her life without him. That entire successful, fulfilled life with fame and career – but with no Eliot Spencer in it – meant nothing.

She had pushed him out of it, to save him from the danger she brought, but now there wasn't a Florence McCoy anymore. She would disappear, and all the danger with her.

On one side, she had a career and a life without love. On the other side, she had love – now safe, _possible_.

She jumped to her feet and went to Sterling. The agent raised his head to her, and she tried not to think about the hat on his head. Only when she saw his perplexed eyes did she become aware that she had a crazy grin on her face.

"You can stay here, or you can come with me," she said.

"I've told you already about distractions. Stay. You'll mess up whatever he is doing."

"I've already messed up everything." And Eliot needed to know that it was only him she wanted. That was the first step. Everything else could wait. With time, Nate and Hardison might come up with some solution. Maybe she could even continue to work on M7 via Hardison's secure _whatever_. More than once she had worked with her writers via conference calls from New Zealand.

She returned to her spot and took her club. "The lake is in that direction." She pointed the club to the left. "Do what you want."

The time for hesitation had passed.

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It took only five minutes before Eliot knew this was Maddox's action. The Koreans wouldn't bother arranging a trap with a civilian in it; they would attack before he reached any of the houses. But that also meant that all of them were here. Maddox had probably arranged the action via radios and gathered as many of his groups as he could. The Koreans with the police groups knew every detail of it. They would be waiting on the edges of the fog or maybe even let the police try catching him. If Maddox got lucky, it would be easy for them to just grab him after he was arrested.

All the houses were surrounded by trees; there were no clearings around them. The woods touched the water. He advanced through the fog, keeping the phone ready.

Only fifty yards behind the first house in the row, empty and dark, he caught a clear and strong signal. This phone would lead the Koreans via Interpol to Nate the moment he called him or sent a message to his number. _Out of the question_. Nevertheless, Nate had to know what was going on – anybody who was after the hitter of the team was already too close to them. The Koreans had half a million reasons to get him, but what if he wasn't enough? Denise was with Sterling long enough to know everything about Leverage team. They were all wanted – and their worth, if the Koreans got them, wasn't measured only by the amount of money they could get for them.

It took fifteen minutes to find all the cops' positions. One group covered the road behind the houses. Two more groups were spread out in the woods around and behind the backyards. They kept enough distance for him to approach without seeing them. He knew they would let him pass to the lit house with the civilian in it even if they saw him, so the trap could close around him. Maddox's group was probably in that house, or in the one next to it. That one was closed and dark.

He had also discovered all five spots where the phone signal was strong enough to go online. He lost one minute typing and sending the pictures of Jonas's fingerprints he had taken. The quality was poor, but Hardison could work his magic on cleaning the lines until he got enough points to run them through his databases. The hacker would not be able to return any information to him, but the results would be useful for the team.

After that, he went back to the road and the cops hidden on both sides of it.

And attacked the trap.

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Sterling caught up with Florence when she got stuck in an entwined cluster of thorny bushes that blocked her way. She had chosen a good path, though, following the bank. The trees were mostly touching the water but clearer parts, with sand and mud, were useful and much quicker to pass than breaking her way through the thick forest.

He had no idea why he had followed her in the first place. He should've just stayed where she had left him and gathered his strength. He knew he would need every ounce of it when Spencer's plan – a plan with quotation marks and a smirk – failed utterly, endangering them all.

No. He knew why he did it. She was a civilian. Those poor bastards were to be protected – and used, and fooled, and moved around as chess pieces the way he wanted – but mainly to be protected. It was his _job_.

The stupid woman was heading to a slaughter, directly into the wide open arms of all who waited for Spencer.

He helped her to free herself from the two branches stuck in her jacket. "Look left," he said. "The bank bends a little, and we can see the houses from here. We can stay and observe, and-"

"You can – I'm going there to tell him-"

"This is not one of your episodes, Florence. This is real danger. Real bullets!"

She looked across the water, to the houses barely visible in the fog. They could even hear quiet music coming to them. Then she turned to him. He couldn't see her face clearly, but he could read her posture. "You know, Nate told me the same thing, while we worked on the People's Voice Awards," she said. "That made you sound almost human."

"Then stay here."

"I would. But you are the one who had told me that Eliot was distraught and irrational. He needs to know that I am not. It will help him, it will…" Her voice trembled a little by the end of it. "He can't be far away, and he will lose some time to observe and check everything, and I want, I _have to_ catch him before he meets anybody there."

"You can settle your love disputes later. What difference does it make?"

"His life," she said. She turned around to start walking but stopped when gunshots echoed across the lake. Shouts followed; as clear as if the people shouting were next to the two of them. The water carried every sound.

He muttered a curse and grabbed her hand. "No, wait. The trap closed. You can't go there until they settle. Watch."

He used her stupor and pulled her down to the water. Only one long branch spread over their heads, and they had a perfect view of the houses and wooden docks in front of them. Even a small boat was visible through the fog.

Two more windows in the only lit house flashed, and voices broke through the shooting.

"_Beta Two, what's your status? Gary, report_!" It sounded like Maddox's voice, but loud static from his radio covered it with a cracking noise. Sterling couldn't hear any word amongst that static, and no reply came.

"Now listen to me," he leaned closer to Florence and lowered his voice. The sounds travelled both ways, though it wasn't likely the cops would hear his words through their own yelling and shooting. He worried about other ears that might've been listening in the fog, silent and attentive. "This might be Maddox," he said. "If we reach him, in the crowd of his people, I can warn him about the Kor-"

"_Beta Three, Beta Four, a suspect is on your twelve! Get ready_!"

"Ah, damn." He watched the dark shapes running from their covers into the open and regrouping around the lit house. In fifteen seconds, they spread in a line and advanced into the forest, leaving the bank. "And there goes Maddox. No point in running after him while he is in a chase; the Koreans are probably all around him."

"We have to get closer," Florence whispered beside him.

"Why? Spencer is driving them away and up into the woods."

Then he heard her chuckle. "No, Sterling. I know him, and I know how he thinks," she said. "Land line and a car, remember? Eliot is already in that house."

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The alleged fisherman was definitely a cop posing as a civilian. He wore a vest under his green jacket.

Opening the window was tricky for a moment, but music from a TV covered up all sounds. The cop didn't hear Eliot coming in. He went quickly down; a blood choke usually took seven seconds to knock the victim down when applied properly. Eliot lowered the unconscious man to the floor of the small living room and checked his breathing and pulse.

He had to hurry. The car keys might not even be-

A sudden voice interrupted the music from the TV, and he quickly turned around. The guy had been watching a local TV station, he realized when he saw a reporter in Brattleboro. The Free Folk Festival had rolled on the entire night as if nothing happened. "_The suspect is armed and dangerous, but police are closing in. Interpol forces are still at the crime scene, assisting the police. Stay tuned, and in the meantime, listen to the_…" The reporter announced some local group, and he stopped listening.

Sterling would be delighted to hear that all his agents were still in Brattleboro. Probably Denise too, if the paramedics had taken care of her. Her wound wasn't any more serious than Sterling's, and she wouldn't miss the opportunity to be close in the center of everything. No, she wouldn't dare do that – the Koreans weren't a forgiving bunch, and she'd failed. Also, if she let them take her to the hospital, she wouldn't be able to monitor the chase. Nobody knew she'd killed Min-Jung, for now, and she could just continue. Interpol was working with the police, so she would know immediately if Sterling was found alive and her position was compromised.

A moment of silence, right before the music started again on the TV, saved his life. The wooden floor creaked under a light step. He turned around by pure instinct; no thinking.

A Korean was already in the air, his foot only an inch away from Eliot's head. _Evade, block, strike_, a well-known sequence, this time failed. The heavy shoe grazed his head, and he staggered back. His brain bounced against his skull. The disorientation that lasted a few seconds cost him three heavy hits in the chest. Pain exploded; he breathed fire.

He retreated. The Korean advanced. No words, no hesitation, just sheer concentration seeping from the calm face.

He hit that face once, used the momentum to turn, and he dug his elbow into the Korean's chest. Stopped his knee hit. Repeated all.

It made no difference. The guy shook it off and pressed back; this time his hits found their target.

The situation was the same with Quinn in that airport hangar, a long time ago: taking hit after hit, refusing to go down, pulling everything he had into staying on his feet, and _waiting_. Waiting for the opponent's slip of concentration, a glimpse of frustration, a crack in his defense. He could endure many hits. And he could recognize a mistake in a millisecond and use it before a single heartbeat ended.

The only trick was to still have that heartbeat. He felt it in his throat when a nasty slam to his stomach sent him flying back. He crashed through the open door into the hall and ended with his back in a huge wall mirror. The glass shattered around him and he reached back, gripping the frame on both sides.

The Korean sprung forward, taking that grip as a weakness, as a steadying on his feet. He waited until the Korean's fist almost reached his face and flipped the frame over his head. The heavy wood slammed into the Korean's forearm from above, breaking the bones and pulling the arm downward. Eliot closed the remaining distance; his head slammed into the Korean's face. That almost sent them both down. His opponent was staggering back and he followed, slamming at him, hitting elbows and knees until the Korean couldn't move his hands, and until his retreat was just one continued fall… and Eliot finished him with an elbow hit to the head.

_Three down, seven to go_.

Fuck, he couldn't straighten up for ten seconds. He was bent over and only able to breathe through pain and nausea, as if his brain hadn't stop spinning after the first hit in the head. He rested with both hands against something wooden in the hall. His knees were shaking, and hot, red pain spread through every damn bruise he had. He felt no stabbing pain, though, and that was a good sign.

A perfect time for driving a car. He forced himself to stand upright – _Oh, here we go, a stabbing pain_ – and wiped his eyes. He didn't feel anything broken, but he felt worse than after Quinn, which wasn't surprising at all. Three fights in a row with equal opponents and no rest in between? He was lucky he was standing.

Time to gather himself. All seven remaining Koreans might be around the house. Or in the house, close to him, and his blurred vision didn't see them. He could barely see shapes around him.

And he had to move. Now. So he moved, forcing his shaky legs to carry him just a little longer.

He found the car keys on the counter only one foot away from him.

Maddox believed Eliot had been pushed back into the forest, but soon the cops would see they were chasing thin air, and the captain might pull them back or send one group to check the house. He didn't have much time. The moment he started the engine, they would hear it and run back.

He went to check on the unconscious cop, clumsy, slow steps that took so much effort – and then he saw the cop's gun. He stopped short.

If ever, now was the time to kill. He'd done it for the team. Killing for Florence, to save her, would be the same. If he lost the next fight, they would kill her. He _didn't_ know could he win another fight.

He took the cop's gun, checked the bullets, and put it in the big side pocket of his cargo pants.

_Next thing, make sure the Korean is still out_. And when he saw the Korean's slumped shape on the floor, he knew that gun would go to Sterling. Not so long ago, he couldn't kill Dubenich. Shooting at the unconscious Korean was – it became – impossible for him. And he couldn't decipher whether he was glad or pissed off because of that. They weren't armed. They'd tried to take him down alive because of the reward, and everything in him screamed at the thought of shooting at the people attacking him with bare hands.

Which was completely idiotic, he knew that. They didn't need weapons to kill.

_Ah, what the hell_. It was useless to ponder upon that. He had work to do, and no time for this.

His strength was barely sufficient, but he gritted his teeth and went to the window. When this part of the plan with the car ended, he might have a chance to rest a little and gather his strength. No, worse – he would _need_ that, if he wanted to continue at all.

He climbed out the window, holding back the curses when every move strained his hurt muscles, and managed to land relatively safely on his feet. After four steps, his walking became staggering, but he pushed himself faster. He only had to get to the car – the moment he sat, he would feel better.

He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and walked around the house to the front yard with the pick-up and a small dock.

_Two_ Koreans were leaning against the hood of the pick-up. They bowed their heads and smiled at him.

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It was very late at night when Nate arrived at the office, and yet a delivery truck passed by him, leaving the brewery's back yard. He checked the back yard before going to the front door; Hardison had locked the entrance after the truck left, so it was probably something usual.

He didn't have to come here. Hardison said there was nothing they could do before they found out what was happening, and why Interpol had checked Kim Leske's Facebook page. It could be a false alarm or an attempt that had ended right there on the page.

Eliot's phone was still turned off. He was in the house whose owner Interpol had checked, and there was no way Nate could go back to sleep. Overthinking was a bitch.

He passed through the dark, empty pub, and stopped before entering the offices. Hardison was talking to someone inside.

"I can explain. Seriously, there's no need to sulk. You are not being threatened. These are just… companions." Hardison's half murmuring voice was for a moment covered by a sound of something heavy being dragged. "Think of it as temporary company, or, or… a visiting kindergarten class. Yeah, that's it. It'll be fun."

Nate opened the door, and Hardison quickly straightened up and turned to him. "I wasn't talking to anybody!" the hacker said. "Delivery just brought these…" He waved his hand to four big wooden boxes full of something green. They were lined in front of George. "…plants."

"What the hell are you doing? Why-"

"They messed up my order, all right?" Hardison reached and pulled out a vase containing a one-foot-tall plant. "I ordered four boxes of oca tubers – they brought oca _plants_."

"And what are we supposed to do with – how many plants are in a box?"

Hardison slumped his shoulders. "Forty nine."

"And what are we supposed to do with one hundred ninety-six plants in the office?" Nate glanced at George. "Pardon, ninety-seven." He turned his back to all of them, not believing what he had just said. He was certain he was immune to this collective madness about George, but even he slipped sometimes. It was late, and he was tired, he said to himself, going to the working table.

Hardison followed.

George didn't.

God, he needed coffee.

"Okay, enough of this crap," he said. With all that green now behind his back, he could pretend that they simply weren't there. "What have you got on Interpol?"

"Bad news. I was just thinking about calling you to come when the truck came."

Hardison pulled a map up on the screens, and Nate snatched his cup of coffee that stood next to a soda bottle. He sat at the table, studying the grim smile on Hardison's face.

"This is Brattleboro." Hardison clicked with his mouse on the dot surrounded by an awful lot of woods. Then he picked a spot a little north of the town. "Here's Kim Leske's house, where Eliot and Florence were."

"Were?"

"Yeah." Hardison sighed. "For your information, I'm getting us a plane. If everything goes as planned, we'll be able to take off in two hours."

"That bad?"

Instead of an answer, Hardison pointed at the screen, and the giant face of a beautiful blond woman in tears showed over the map. "We didn't expect him to return," she said. The camera moved away a little, and Nate could see the interior of the cottage behind her full of police and several women dressed in dark suits like the one she wore. "He just appeared out of nowhere. My colleague – _my friend_ – pulled her gun on him, but he shot her. She died right before my eyes. We couldn't do anything."

Hardison stopped the recording.

"Oh boy." Nate said just that. This _wasn't_ happening. This had to be some mistake. Eliot would never-

"Wait until you hear the rest. This is just the beginning," Hardison said. "The first thing I did after I noticed Interpol on Leske's Facebook page – and I still don't know how they got to the house – was to check Brattleboro to see if anything was happening there. Well, 'happening' is too weak a word. In short, Eliot and Florence were surrounded in the house; he was taken down by a SWAT team. He escaped from the ambulance and returned to the house and shot — killed one agent, taking Sterling and Florence as hostages. Local TV has a live report of a huge chase all night with reporters from the crime scene and occasionally from the woods around the town. At least, that was the version before this video. This woman is Denise Clayton, an Interpol agent and a witness. Listen to _this_ mess; things are starting to get interesting now." Hardison started the video again.

"I can't explain that," Denise responded to an unheard question. "We did find his interest in our suspect a little too personal, but you don't question your boss's motives. We thought we simply weren't told the whole story." She raised her hand and touched a sling that held her other arm, and tears poured out. "I almost managed to shoot Spencer - I was t-this close – when James Sterling, _my boss_, shot me."

"They cut it here for the effect," Hardison said. "The reporter in short explained that both Eliot and Sterling escaped _together_, taking Florence as a hostage. This recording is a few hours old." Hardison pulled the map back up and drew a large circle on the green. "They are somewhere here, in the wilderness; chased by state police, local police, and volunteers."

"The bitch is lying," a cold voice above their heads said. Nate looked up. Parker hung from the high ceiling dressed in pastel green pajamas and with disheveled hair.

"No shit, Sherlock." Hardison grinned at her.

"Eliot doesn't even hit women, much less shoot them. Well, except me." She lowered down, and landed in a chair by the table. "Call him."

"No," Nate said. "He would call us if it was safe. His phone might be bugged or tracked – in fact, it most certainly is if the police are after him. A call could locate him and lead to us, too. We don't know the real situation, and calling him might bring more trouble." He thought for a second and sighed. "No, definitely not. Even if he doesn't have a phone, he would find a way to get one if he wanted to call us. This silence means that the danger around him might be a danger for us, too."

Nate put his elbows on the table and leaned a little forward, studying the woods.

"We all agree Eliot wouldn't do three things," he said. "He wouldn't kill, unless it is absolutely necessary. He wouldn't kill a woman. And he wouldn't use a gun for it. There is a possibility of all three, of course – but the chances are so small that we can say this woman is either lying or misguided. Yet she claims to be a witness. So, lying. Hardison?"

"I've already put her in all my searches. I'll have something soon."

Nate rubbed the back of his neck and grabbed his coffee. "Now, the interesting part," he said. "Sterling. Find out how he tracked Eliot. Nobody knew Eliot would go to Boston, not even him…" He trailed off for a moment. He knew almost all the usual precautions of his hitter, and he could pretty much go step-by-step, following him back from that house all the way to airport and…"Until he saw _the episode_. That was the trigger for his travel. Sterling didn't accidentally stumble on Kim Leske's house, Hardison, that page had nothing suspicious. He tracked Florence. No other way for Sterling to be waiting for Eliot at that exact time and place, when even Eliot didn't know where he would be only a few hours before."

"And speaking of hours…" Hardison said. "We have two before we start. At least six hours on a plane and a two-hour drive from Boston to this area. Total, ten."

"Yeah, I know. Give me Denise Clayton back on the screen." Nate watched the recording from the beginning, this time trying to see as much of the room behind her as he could. Nothing important and nothing crucial, just many people moving around yellow crime scene tape. "Something happened here. Something that turned the tables. She said Eliot escaped the ambulance and came back – probably for Florence. But why, if she wasn't in danger? Sterling had nothing on her. And after that _something_, which we don't know anything about, Sterling joins him in allegedly killing and shooting his own agents? That doesn't make any sense."

A sharp ping came from Hardison's tablet; one red dot blinked at the corner of the screens. Nate watched the hacker's face, a grin slowly emerging as he scrolled on his tablet.

"What?" Nate tried not to show his impatience.

"It's Eliot," Hardison said. "At least we know he is alive. And this is what I got." The hacker took a remote and several big images showed in front of them. Nate squinted when he saw that those fingerprints were dark red; he didn't need a lot of imagination to figure out why.

"And this came with the pics," Hardison said. "Words and numbers."

_X-ray Uniform Delta – 10/0321, 1/2741_

"Great," Nate said. "We'll lose hours in decoding that, and he could just say it… No, he couldn't, right? How did he send it at all? Did he _text_ you? Send you an email? All of that can lead the pursuit to us and reveal his position. Maybe he wasn't worried about his position, but he wouldn't endanger us and-"

"Nope," Hardison cut him off, and his grin spread wider. "No text, no call, no email. There's no way somebody could find us by following _this_."

"Why those codes?" Parker asked. "He could just write what was going on. This is like his numbers back in Boston. His papers from Mass Gen took us hours to decipher, with Arabic and Hebrew, and abbreviations, and-"

"Paranoia," Nate said. He watched the message feeling the same annoyance Parker felt.

"You were right, Nate," Hardison said. "He could call or text us, but he didn't. Knowing him, he is on an overprotective spree again, and he didn't call because that could lead to us. But, he found a way to let us know what's going on and nobody – and literally nobody – can connect us to him."

"Hardison…"

The hacker grinned. "I'll just say… his stumbling all over internet with Supernatural and M7 groups six months ago wasn't in vain."

Nate was pretty sure he heard a low snickering from the green mass behind his back.

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A frozen moment stretched into eternity. Eliot just stayed in front of the Koreans; not moving, not even thinking. Only his labored breathing, which he tried to calm down, could be heard in the small front yard.

"We can end this without any more trouble or pain," one of the two Koreans said. "Just come with us – because you're coming either way."

The guy was right. The chances were he would be dragged away as a heap of broken bones.

He dismissed the words and looked at the one who wasn't talking. He was older and definitely second generation with mixed parents. Light eyes of undecipherable color and brown hair were visible in a grey soup of fog and incoming dawn. They were dressed like locals, in dark and green.

"What's your name?" Eliot asked the younger one.

"My name is not important."

"Nice to meet you, Not Important." He colored the words with a smile, just to see their reaction. There was none. They were relaxed. No eager anticipation of a fight, so characteristic to regular thugs, but no visible worry either. _He_ was worried before every fight with the rest of their team, and he won those fights. Overconfidence would be their weakness if it wasn't so obvious that they had so many damn reasons to be overconfident.

Heck, he had nothing more to work with.

He could pull out the gun and kill them both. Not even North Korean Special Forces could dodge bullets. And he couldn't do it, and he hated himself for that – as if his hesitation, his weakness, was a death sentence to Florence. And it would be. He couldn't fight them both and win.

Desperation crept over him as he stood there watching them.

What if he really allowed them to take him away? It would be the same as he had done with Maddox's trap in the house with Flo, simply changing the circumstances. It would give him time to recover, many possible chances to do something, and the most important thing: they would clear out of the woods, leaving Florence and Sterling alive.

He almost opened his mouth to turn himself in when he remembered Denise and her cover. She was valuable to the Koreans, and she would be compromised if Sterling and Florence were left to tell everybody she killed Min-Jung.

Well, that settled that. He didn't like that option, anyway.

This time, his smile was natural, not testing.

They didn't need more. That smile was the answer to their offer. They both stepped towards him – and he had nothing, even his breathing hadn't slowed down from the previous fight. Simply standing took effort.

His brain was too slow, still spinning. He needed more time. "Wait," he said. Younger One stopped. Light Eyes didn't. "I'll go with you – but I want something in return."

Younger One looked at Light Eyes, who didn't even think about his words, already two steps closer. That one knew bluffing and buying time when he saw them.

That pretty much told Eliot everything he needed to know about the inner dynamics of that pair, and his entire sequence of actions rolled before his eyes – yet the execution was questionable.

He couldn't fight both of them at the same time. That meant the more dangerous one had to go down immediately.

They both dashed at him with a speed he couldn't match, and one roundhouse kick and one fist slammed into him at the same time, thrusting him backwards and off-balance. He did nothing to parry; returning the hits would be a waste of strength now. He watched, studied, waited for rage to start burning.

After three rounds of slamming at him – fast strikes with immediate retreats – he sorted them out. All their weaknesses, all their strong spots, possible mistakes, speed of reactions - and he had to change his plan. Light Eyes was too careful. He guarded himself too well, and that turned this trouble into a serious disaster. Eliot had to leave him standing, and deal with Younger One first.

And he had to do it now. Every second, every hit he received could be the last one. Only their confusion, caused by him not accepting the fight, stopped them from attacking in full force.

They held back, suspicion preventing them from finishing their victim, who only staggered between them, thrown around like a doll. Well, they were right to be cautious. The pain pounded, pulsated, one fucking sea of pain, while he collected it, waiting, and waiting, and _waiting_ for the first mistake…

And then he saw it. His first chance to strike.

Younger One didn't retreat after the last killer punch to his head, and Eliot saw a hole in his defense. He took a hit in the ribs from Light Eyes, swirled and slammed _mawashi-geri gedan_, a low roundhouse kick, into the side of Younger One's knee. It shattered with a sickening, cracking sound. The Korean flew away with a bellow that died out when he fell. He was out, the pain too strong to endure.

_Four down, six to go_.

And now, the fun part. He sent one nasty smile to Light Eyes; the Korean just stood there for a moment, watching him.

Taking a step towards him turned into a stumble, and Eliot seriously reconsidered his odds. He was unsteady, every muscle in his body screaming in pain, and he couldn't quite connect his brain to his arms. But he had been through worse, much worse, and he'd lived. He could endure this.

He turned that stumble into a longer step. His opponent's posture told him to expect an attack with a foot to test his speed without coming too close, and he had almost a second of heads up. That foot broke through Eliot's guard as if his hand hadn't risen to block the hit. The heavy heel didn't hit him in the middle of the chest, he managed to deflect it to the left – but the punch to his left side spun him around.

A knee hit to the back followed. He recoiled and turned around, only to meet a fist in the face, and another, and another, and an elbow to the chest – and his retreat became one long attempt to not fall, because he knew if he fell, that would be it. Done.

This guy was too fast for him. He might be too fast even if Eliot was at full strength and healthy; he'd always known he would meet someone younger, more deadly. _But hell, not now_. Not when he was the only thing standing between this guy and Florence.

That thought moved his hands faster; he stopped two hits, stole a breath, and regained balance.

The disorientation was nasty; he closed his eyes to stop the Korean spinning around him. That helped. The guy dashed to finish him, thinking he was going down. When a fist collided with his ribs, he didn't have to see it to know where the rest of the Korean's body was – he slammed into him, threw him back, and now _he_ continued with quick hits.

This guy knew how to turn the tables. In a blink of an eye, his retreat became an attack again – yet this time the Korean slammed into him with a full body force, shoulder first. The pain exploded in his chest, a hot, white surge of pain that stopped his breathing and blurred his vision. They both staggered back.

The Korean steadied himself.

He didn't. The world spun around him; he tried to take a step - his fucking knees buckled – and he stumbled directly into an elbow. Face first. His hand, out of sync with the commands from his brain, hit the face that swam before him, but the Korean just took the hit and shook his head to clear it.

His dazed brain could only notice – and it did, as if watching the fight from above – both the Korean's hands clutching his own, which he raised for one more hit. And in a moment of terrifying clarity, he knew what was coming next. The guy spun into him, wrenching his arm backwards, pushing him down, until the vicious force on his elbow and shoulder, on the verge of breaking, forced him to kneel. The tearing agony in his shoulder immobilized him completely; one move, one inch, and it would break. He'd done this arm lock so many times, he knew the next move. A knee hit to the head. And that would be it. He had maybe one second to-

"Uhm. Excuse me." A voice broke through the fog. A voice that turned his blood into ice. "You see, that guy you're pummeling…He is mine."

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The hands that held him immobilized didn't loosen a bit, but he felt a movement; the Korean raised his head and looked at Florence. She stood only a few steps away from them, clutching her pathetic stick like a baseball bat, and he couldn't even….

His fear grew into cold terror. He couldn't stop Light Eyes from killing her. The Korean would make that distance in two seconds, break her neck, and return to him before he managed to straighten up, to move through disorientation and stand.

Despair and panic exploded in his heart with the equal force. The hands for a moment increased the pressure keeping him down; the Korean was about to thrust him into the ground and surge to Florence.

He arched his back – or tried to – to set himself free, but the guy was a professional. He kept his arm locked one millimeter from the breaking point.

But he was Eliot Fucking Spencer, not some random thug; they could knock him down, but there was no _keeping_ him there. He always got up. His body might be bent, facing the mud, but unbending will was what made him _him_, not muscles and speed.

He sank. The pressure followed his movement.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes, reaching through the pain to the last reserve of rage and strength. He entwined them, and accumulated them into a coil until the energy vibrated under his skin.

And he surged up.

His shoulder gave way.

A sickening rush of nausea swept over him when he heard his tendons and joints tearing apart, but he was free. The Korean's hands sank when there was no resistance, throwing him out of balance and forcing him to take a step back.

Florence's cry broke through the ringing in his ears, but he didn't look at her; he stood up and turned to the Korean. The face before him froze in bewilderment; the Korean reached into his jacket and pulled out a knife. Oh yes, the balance of power had definitely shifted. The opponent who thought of protecting his life, forgetting the reward, was _beaten_.

Eliot shot forward. Agony brewed into an outcry; he swallowed it, channeling it into a turn and a punch. All that he had went into that last hit – all the pain and despair and fear – and slammed into the Korean's jaw, knocking him off his feet.

The impact shot bolts of raw pain through his shoulder and the arm hanging as a dead weight; he stumbled – fuck, he was falling – into spinning darkness. The ground slammed into his knees; it felt like an axe sliced through him, bursting out through the dislocated joint. Returning that shoulder to position would be _such_ a joy.

_Five down, five to go_.

"Don't touch him!" A male voice swam to him. _Sterling_. He fought disorientation, clearing his mind, and looked at them. Two blurry shapes swam before him; Sterling kept Florence near his side. _Good_. This wasn't finished just because the Korean went down.

The pain kept him awake; he concentrated on the damage, wrapped his mind around here and now.

The houses. The police too close, maybe already returning. The car.

_The car_.

That was the reason he was here. He scrambled to his feet.

Everything still spun around, but he rode the wave and stayed upright. No time for anything else but finishing this. "Follow the bank," he whispered. "A hundred yards from here, near the water is a good shelter. A big hole under two fallen trees." He reached with his good hand and took the car keys and gun from his pocket. He pointed the gun in the air and shot one bullet. The explosion echoed across the lake like a cannon. He threw it to Sterling. "Go. Now." The last word was merely a breath, and he gritted his teeth.

Sterling waved the gun at the blue pick-up truck. "What the hell, Spencer? You came here to get us a car!"

Yes, the car. He blinked away the dizziness. "Don't be stupid," he growled. "Go. They are coming."

"Eliot," Florence whispered. "Let me go with you. I have to-"

"No. Clear out, both of you." He left them standing there and went to the truck. The keys clattered in his shaking hand; it took three attempts to open the door, and five to put them in the ignition. The roar of the engine was loud, but he pressed the gas pedal and made it thunder.

Sterling finally caught up with his plan; he saw him out of the corner of his eye shooing Florence, directing her back to the bank.

He drove away.

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The road behind the houses followed the bank. He turned the wheel with his right hand, trying to find a good position for the left one. There was none. He finally laid it in his lap and tried to forget it existed.

_That guy you're pummeling… He is mine_. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He didn't need that shit reeling in his head right now.

He tried to forget everything but the task before him. All his attention was set on the steps of his plan; drifting away would make it impossible to return to it. If he messed this up, all was in vain.

The truck was set in low gear to drive slow and make a lot of noise, and he got the first results after only one minute. Two cops burst from the forest alongside the road and waved their guns to stop him. He pressed the gas and surged toward them, forcing them to jump away. There should be no doubt who was in the car.

Their yells and bullets followed him.

That was enough. Driving too far would mean it would take longer to get back, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to walk more than ten minutes. The moment he rounded a curve and the cops disappeared from his sight, he slowed down and searched for a spot where the road was nearest to the water.

One short slope was perfect. The trees around it hovered over the water, and they would hide him. He turned the wheel toward the lake and opened all the windows, then stopped at the edge of the slope and got out.

The truck needed just one push – this time he let a cry of pain escape where nobody could hear him - and gravity did the rest. The truck slid down, plunged into the dark surface and disappeared with only minimal waves and noise.

He picked up the branches it broke on its way down and used them to cover the tracks closest to the road. Nobody should see that he'd turned off. He propped the biggest one upright.

And with that last branch, his concentration shattered into pieces. He'd pushed every ounce of strength into the last part of the plan, pushing the truck into lake, and now his mind ached, empty and dazed.

His legs barely held him. He staggered off the road and found a log to sit on. One minute of rest, no more, and then he would go back to Florence and Sterling.

He closed his eyes and listened. The uproar of police around the houses didn't contain any _We got them__!_ in the yells he could hear. If the two of them had reached the place where he had sent them, they were safe. A huge hole under the two fallen trees. Their roots, entwined as a roof, still held clumps of soil firmly attached, and bushes still held onto it. Only from a boat could someone see there was cover, and nobody would stumble on it climbing down from the road.

His minute had passed. It cleared his brain and slowed down his thumping heartbeat, and the pain even subsided when he wasn't moving. That would change when he took his first step, but hell, he knew it would hurt. Nothing special about it.

As long as he kept himself between the road and the water in a broad belt of thick vegetation, he would be fine. The police frenzy was directed at the road now, to gathering all the cars and groups and setting the road blocks.

He got up, testing his balance, and went back.

_That guy you're pummeling…He is mine_.

Her words fluttered in his mind again, but not only the words; it was her voice that still resonated. A hard, fierce voice, _Don't fuck with me_ seeping through it with such a force that the Korean looked at her as a threat, not just a small, irrelevant woman with a stick.

She was a writer. She could choose words just for effect. It did sound like something one of her seven idiots would say.

But it was that sound that echoed in his mind, not the meaning – a voice he couldn't connect with a woman who had said this was too much for her. She certainly didn't look like a frightened woman who had bailed out of a dangerous relationship.

He understood why she had done that, and his anger was aimed only at himself, not at her. But he had been using that anger to stop himself from thinking, from _feeling_, to preserve the edge he needed to keep them all alive all this time. Maybe it would've been better if he had allowed himself to feel the hurt; that would have – also maybe – allowed him to see that something was wrong with that picture.

But was it? He stumbled through the woods thinking, and all the little signs he had ignored returned. The first crazy thing she did: when she jumped Bonnano, thinking he was a mobster, so all five of them could escape; her going directly to Knudsen to negotiate, and stealing a machine gun and smuggling it into Lucille. For god's sake, that woman had a gun duct-taped to her calf under her dress at the PVA ceremony.

But even the bravest had a breaking point, a thing that would be too much to endure. This could be it, for her. She surely had looked devastated when he came to get her from the house.

He clutched his left arm and kept it pressed against his chest to reduce every movement. The rough terrain wasn't helping; every step sent stabs of pain through his bones. All his will was set only on staying conscious as he trotted the last hundred yards.

_He is mine_.

The hope he felt was deadly.

He might be wrong.

But when he pushed aside the bushes that hid them, a whirl of hugs, and kisses, and unintelligible words slammed into him. He wrapped his right hand around her waist and pulled her closer, spending on that move his last ounce of strength, but it was damn worth it.

The last thing he saw, before she dragged him inside, was her dazzling smile.

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The buzzing in his head formed into words, and he stopped drifting away. She had laid him back against the wall of soil to rest, and the semi-darkness around them became a pitch-black void that sucked him in twice. This third time he managed to stay conscious for a decent amount of time. _Small victories_.

"…and it was terrible, and I didn't know what else to do-" She stopped to catch her breath after three minutes of fast babbling. Three minutes of bliss he spent sitting with her curled in arm's reach, leaning on his knees; three minutes of staring close-range at fierce eyes full of worry and smiles, and guilt and happiness, and-"… and I never, ever wanted to hurt you, but I know I did-"

"We were _all_ hurt." Sterling's voice sounded melodic and so damn sleazy. "And since we are all okay now, I suggest we concentr-"

"Shut up, Sterling. I'm talking now!" She darted one nasty glare over her shoulder, then returned her attention to Eliot. Her fingers pulled at his sleeve in small, uncertain tugs. "I won't say I had time to think about it," she went on, but this time more slowly. "It was an impulse, and I knew it was the right thing to do – only later I decided it was tactically a very good move – but at the same time a disaster. It would have worked if you had just left like you should have, but with these Koreans around it became weird and-"

"Yes, weird is the right-"

"Shut up, Sterling!"

Eliot didn't want to stop watching her, but he spared one glance at the opposite end of a small shelter. Sterling let out one long breath and slowly got up. "I'll take a look at the houses and monitor police actions there," the agent said. "Only three steps away."

Eliot watched the dark shape that went to the slightly lighter entrance. The trunk and two elephant ears on Sterling's head were too damn visible for his liking. Dawn was almost here. He knew Sterling wouldn't be so stupid as to show himself, but nevertheless…

Two small hands gripped him more tightly, and he realized he'd missed the beginning of her sentence. "…and don't you dare worry about my life! I got it all covered, and I know how to make everything work. Don't you get it? If I have to leave my name behind, I leave all the dangers and all the people who might know about that name behind too, and we can be together without all that shit! Hardison will think of something; I trust him. He and Nate, they will find a way for me to work on M7. The only thing you have to do now is stop worrying about all that and just rest."

He still hadn't gotten a chance to say a word. Listening to her babbling was enough; that, and feeling her glued to him. But now he raised his hand and ran his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer until her face touched his cheek. And he just stayed that way, until he felt her heartbeats slowing and her breathing calming down.

"When this is over," he whispered, "we'll talk about every damn stupid thing you've done. Not now."

Her chuckle ended with a sob; she covered his face with light kisses.

"About the stupid things…" a gruff voice from outside said. Sterling entered again, dry leaves shuffling under his feet. "I got all this 'deceiving with a car' part, but it won't last a long."

"It will," Eliot said. "I didn't leave the car somewhere nearby, I sank it. Maddox now has a fugitive who's left the woods, who is on the road and speeding away. He'll react quickly – he will withdraw all groups from this area and clear the woods, set the watch on the roads, set the road blocks, and…" He stopped to take a breath. He was at the end of his strength and barely able to keep his eyes open. "He knows that the search is out of his hands now. Boston is two hours away from here. Wilmington, Brattleboro, Townshend… maybe twenty minutes. Fugitives head to towns to hide among the masses. Maddox won't even think about this part of the woods again. That will give us time to recover. A few hours of rest – then we can think about the next step. About finishing this."

"Calling Nate, I presume? Forget about your suspicions, Spencer. He needs to know what's going on."

"He knows. I've sent Jonas's fingerprints to the team, along with a message."

The blurry mass in front of them blurred a little more; Sterling took one quick step forward.

"You did what?" The agent's voice was a snarl.

Florence, still in his arms, tensed like a spring, but he stopped her from turning. "Stay," he whispered into her hair.

Sterling stepped closer. "If I was out there monitoring the stolen phone, I would be delighted to catch you making such a stupid mistake, Spencer – but guess what, I'm not there! The only people monitoring that phone are my agents, who are possible Korean moles, and Maddox, whose every word is listened to by a bunch of Koreans! You just sent Nate's number to all of them."

"Ya think?"

"Damn right I think! And when they knock on your team's door, who-" Sterling stopped. After a few moments, the left elephant ear ducked when he tilted his head, and he said, "What did you do?"

"Flo, take my phone," Eliot said.

She searched his pockets and pulled the phone out. "No signal here. What-"

"The browser is still open, just click on-" But she already had; she chuckled.

She turned the phone so Sterling could see. "The last post on Kim Leske's Facebook page," she said. Eliot could feel her evil grin, though she faced Sterling. She was getting exceptionally good that gloating thing. "No Nate's phone number, no texts, no emails… just a post on a public wall, untraceable. And Hardison will see it, take the pics down, and post a response the same way."

"My agents might still be watching that page," Sterling said. "I don't know how many of them are working with the Koreans."

"So what?" Flo shrugged. "Even better – if they run the fingerprints through the database, maybe they decide that Jason is compromised and pull him out."

Sterling said nothing. Eliot could hear him thinking, but heck, he didn't care what the agent thought about this. Florence put the phone away and leaned back into him. _That_ was the thing he needed now.

"So," Sterling said. "Rest and recovery, eh?"

"Somethin' like that," he said. The words came out a little slurred. He blinked the dizziness away. "And monitoring the police around the houses. We're close enough to hear 'em. After that… time to solve this mess."

"With a dislocated shoulder? Hardly. Do you want me to take care of that?"

There was definitely a smirk in the bastard's voice now, and he knew why. But putting a shoulder back into place was an exceptionally gruesome effort when doing it alone, and he needed to get back into shape as soon as possible.

"Yeah, that would be just great," he said, not trying to hide his own snarl. "Florence, you should go outside for a minute."

She moved away but stayed with arm's reach. "No way am I leaving you with-"

"Quick and painless," Sterling said and grabbed Eliot's elbow and shoulder. "Bite a bullet, or whatever your people do."

Eliot stopped his good hand, which was already moving towards Sterling's face, but before he could think of something nasty to say, a burning agony shot through him.

_Painless my ass_. This hurt more than dislocating it. This time, an axe didn't cut through his flesh, it stayed inside and swirled. He swallowed a moan, and for a moment the ringing in his ears drowned out all other sounds. His hearing cleared slowly. A few words penetrated the noise, but he couldn't decipher their meaning.

He kept himself at the very edge of unconsciousness, refusing to sink, until the darkness before his eyes cleared.

"Didn't know," he said through the gritted teeth, "that you knew how to do it."

"You're welcome," Sterling said from the other side of the shelter; he was already sitting, leaning against the roots. "And I didn't know. I saw that on TV and always wanted to try it."

A huff of pissed off laughter escaped Eliot. He checked on Florence – she was digging in her backpack – and closed his eyes, resting his head on the wall of soil.

He could move his arm again, and that was all that was important now, not still throbbing pain. Five down, five to go.

He'd bought a couple of hours with this. Not enough, but it would have to be. When he stepped out of this hole, he had to be able to do everything.

It was impossible.

Florence came closer to him and her fingers danced on his face. He forced his eyes open.

And while he watched her smile, he remembered his thoughts from six months ago, when they were in the middle of the PVA mess. Nothing was impossible for him, when she was in arm's reach.

She held something out to him. "This will help," she said. "Sleep is good, but you need strength, too."

She held a _sandwich_.

He bit back a laugh, grabbed her and glued her to him, not paying attention to the warnings his shoulder still sent. _This_ was the only thing he needed.

He buried his face in her hair and drifted away.

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	10. Chapter 10

This is a short, interlude chapter with nothing really happening, but it's a ground work for the ending.

Unfortunately, I'm on vacation. Not a long one, but enough to mess with my writing routine, so I'll skip the next Friday – not nearly enough time to finish chapter 11. I'm working on resolution and that's something you don't in a hurry, so be patient :D

I am also thinking about the next story in series, and all possibilities are open. I can fill a gap of a few months between The Season Six Job (near the end of Season 4 of Leverage), and The Dark Rashomon job (a middle of Season 5). Or, I can write Eliot's return to the team after he left them in TSSJ. Or maybe show something they do in Portland (Randall Coddington is ready to meet them again). Not to mention de Bruin, who can also jump in.

If you have your favorite, speak. :D

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The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 10

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Early morning seeped a little dim light into their small shelter. Enough for Florence to clearly see both sleeping men. Sleeping was an inadequate term, though. This stage of utter exhaustion was bordering on unconsciousness.

She held Eliot's hand – lightly, so as not to stir him – until her shivers threatened to shake him. She was freezing, from her still wet feet, to the tip of her red nose. The cop's jacket she wore over Eliot's had gone first. She used it to tuck him in. A solid five inches of dry leaves covered the ground so he wasn't laying directly on the wet soil, but the morning was damp and cold, and he wore only a shirt.

After inwardly grumbling for five minutes, her other jacket went over Sterling. She could move and walk around to warm herself up, but the two of them couldn't; they were both out cold.

Her moving around to keep warm was followed by further shuffling of leaves as she'd mostly snuck outside on her tiptoes. Thinking that she was keeping watch on the surroundings helped her with staying awake – though she has never been this tired in her entire life – but at any point she felt she might drift away, she had only need remember that damn Korean against the moonlight on the ridge above them. She didn't know whether they cleared out of the woods or not, and she had no means to find out.

The voices floating across the water toward her had ceased after some time, and only an occasional exchange revealed that anybody was still out there, among the houses. Maddox wouldn't pull back all of his men. Somebody had to remain at the crime scene. The pair of Koreans she had seen fighting Eliot had been badly beaten, and they were probably taken to Brattleboro hospital. She contemplated a few scenarios in her head; going to the hospital and taking them hostage, though probably – but only probably – that wouldn't work out well.

The sound of a car moving away made her move too. She got up, stepping on the already crushed leaves to lessen any shuffling noise, and peered outside.

The fog still hadn't cleared with the first rays of sun, and she expected a golden mist like the one surrounding them while she watched Eliot practicing Thai-chi. She was facing a white wall. The sun resembled a lit ring hanging behind a heavy curtain.

The shroud of mist covered the lake, low and thick, and her head looked like a Cheerio floating in a bowl of milk. She ducked a little, just in case, resisting the idea to don a crown of branches as camouflage.

The houses were on the left. Only their roofs emerged through the fog, and she couldn't see anything at ground level, but the lights that followed the sound of the car lit the fog from inside. Somebody was still out there, though; she heard a few words.

Well, there was no way anybody might stumble upon them. When she turned back toward the shelter, even she had problems seeing the darker patch behind the bushes; their small cavern was safe.

Every hour of this rest would help them all and at the same time spread the search further away. She expected Maddox to give up somewhere in the afternoon, when his road-blocks failed to show any sign of the blue pick-up truck with his suspect. Or hopefully, even better – there were many blue trucks on the roads, going in different directions. He would follow false leads and end up who knows where.

She returned to the shelter and curled into Eliot's side.

Laying half frozen in a dump hole in the ground wasn't exactly what she had expected when she thought about their reunion. Yet, she only had to reach out a little to touch his hand. That was enough.

And she couldn't stop smiling.

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"Next time, you better send something more than: Eliot is in trouble, come packed." That was Sophie's first sentence when she had stormed into the office. Nate had checked his watch; she had arrived in thirty-five minutes.

Now, watching her comfortably curled up in her plane seat, facing him over the table, he couldn't tell that woman was woken up long before dawn. She even had her discreet make-up on, underlined with a light smile.

The plane was a luxury Dornier, a long range jet for six passengers.

Parker fell asleep the moment they took off, leaving Hardison busy with the piled-up plethora of bags he insisted on bringing. He was on a first name basis with the pilot, so no objections had been made. Two laptops churned away on the table between his and Parker's seat; he typed and checked his luggage at intervals. They were still above Oregon when he finally finished checking his inventory.

Hardison's preparations were always thorough, but this time the hacker obviously gathered every useful thing he had found in their offices. Nate was sure he saw a huge trekking backpack and boots, and several binoculars, but he didn't ask anything. After all, they really didn't know where they were heading, and though it wasn't very likely they would finish in the woods around Brattleboro, the precaution could certainly do no harm.

"I've finished the first layer of searches for Denise Clayton," Hardison said. "And I've found nothing. Nothing suspicious, I mean. Boring life, great career in various Police Forces, chosen by Interpol after a few successful cases, no murky details. I'll dig deeper while working on Eliot's message." The hacker handed him a piece of paper, and Nate looked again at the words and numbers.

_X-ray Uniform Delta – 10/0321, 1/2741_

He had mulled them over his mind since they had arrived, but this was out of his league. "He wouldn't send us something too complicated," he said. "The last time he wanted us to be unable to decipher his code, now it's not the case."

Sophie leaned in and took the paper. "You mean, one of us should be able to guess it?" she asked studying the words. "Not me. It doesn't ring any bells with me."

"Parker also hadn't found anything familiar," Hardison said. "That leaves only me. He thinks – no, he knows – I'll be able to find out what it means. Since he has no idea what I'm really doing while searching, we have to go from his point of view. In his mind and knowledge, internet search is Google. Period. So I'll simply google them and see what comes out." He typed as he spoke, and Nate smiled; the hacker knew the words and numbers by heart by now.

"Do that." Nate took the paper back. "Anything new on the fingerprints?"

"Not yet. I'm doing that search, and I also put Denise Clayton through the facial recognition program. Both take time; these databases are huge."

"We'll be in Boston before noon, Hardison. It'll be useful to have at least-"

"Wait," Hardison raised one hand. "I was right – nothing complicated, he didn't try to make it too hard for us to… and it even looks that we'll finally discover the Commander part of the mystery. What branch of the military and which line of…" Hardison trailed off. "Or not," he finished with a gruff. "Bastard. He did this on purpose, I just know it."

Nate waited, Sophie frowned, and only the rapid typing filled the silence.

"Just a sec, one more thing… aaand… I got it all." Hardison let out a long breath, and leaned back from the laptop. "Ladies and gentlemen, Eliot's message: This is deep shit, but under control. I've got it covered. If y'all think of bringing your sorry asses here, knock it off. You'll just mess it up even further. I have enough problems with ten North Korean Special Operation Forces and their supervisor, and your coming would only add to that shit. If I need you, I'll call you, so turn that plane back and go home, _now_."

"What?" Sophie gasped in surprise so Nate didn't have to show his. Hardison's grin was waiting for him, he knew that. "He can't possibly-" the grifter said. "No way, you're making this up. You couldn't read that from the three words and two numbers."

He could, Nate knew it. Hardison would never joke about such a serious matter.

"Yeah, I added a little flavor to it," Hardison said. "But that's basically it." He turned his laptop sideways so they could see the screen. "First, numbers. _10/0321, 1/2741. _It's ten of 0321 and one 2741. I found the numbers in one second, in the Marine lists. All enlisted and officer Marines are assigned a four digit code denoting their occupational field and specialty. 0321 is for Reconnaissance – both Marine Division Recon and Force Reconnaissance. In short - Special Forces. Very special, if you ask me. 2741 is for linguist – for Korean. He has at least ten Korean badasses on his back."

"So he was in the Marines?" Sophie asked. Nate glanced at her, and she shrugged. "I know it's not important now, but since we have the opportunity to-"

"I thought the same," Hardison said. "And he probably knew we would think that, and hence the other part of it… it's Navy. Three words: _X-ray Uniform Delta. _They are not letters, they are flags. Even in these days of radio and satellite communications, the U.S. Navy uses the International flags alphabet. These signal flags are used to communicate while maintaining radio silence, and that radio silence, in itself, is also a message. _Delta_ flag, meaning: I'm maneuvering with difficulties, keep clear. _Uniform_ flag, meaning: You are running into danger._ X-ray_ flag, meaning: Stop carrying out your intentions and watch for my signals."

"So he was a SEAL then?" Sophie asked. Nate turned to her again, only to meet her smile already directed to him.

"We can't tell from this message, both Army and Navy are mentioned." Hardison turned the laptop back to face him. "So, with that last flag message: Stop carrying out your intentions and watch for my signals – and I'm positive he knew that we're already in the air – what are we going to do?"

"Watch for his signal," Nate said and leaned back, closing his eyes. "Wake me if you find something important, or when we land." He opened one eye and glanced at Hardison once more. "Seriously, Hardison… four binoculars? We aren't going to the Sahara to find someone lost among the dunes."

"Nature. You can't be prepared enough for that scary shit."

Nate just sighed.

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It felt like she'd only closed her eyes to blink a second ago, but when she opened them, Florence found herself wrapped in the cop's jacket, and tucked deep, deep into Eliot's embrace. She reveled in the warmth for a few minutes then slowly slid away under his arm.

She had slept less than fifteen minutes, if the tickling in the fingers of her only half-dead hand was any sign. She shook her hand to get rid of the tiny needles, and looked around.

"Who is Ashley Annabelle and why do you want to kill her?" Sterling's voice came from the other side. She squinted to see him better. In the dim light she could only see his shape against the black earth.

"My evil twin," she whispered back. Eliot didn't stir, thank god.

What else had she been saying in her sleep? She dearly hoped she hadn't recited Nate's telephone number.

She got up and left the shelter to check on the fog. No change for the better. The shroud felt heavier and the sun was just a lighter spot in the midst of a milky curtain. _Ashley Annabelle_, indeed. She huffed remembering her drama and troubles from the day before. What a cruel mockery of her worries this situation was.

The lake was just a few steps down the small slope, and she took a few careful steps closer. It looked like a dark green mirror. No breeze touched the surface here as the fog forced everything into immobility. The weight on her shoulders pressed her, too, and she sat on a log.

She didn't feel rested, but at least her eyelids had stopped randomly falling down. It was strange Sterling was awake now, but the bastard spent almost the entire night being carried. He walked just two short stages of the night. The thought of him awake and thinking while watching them brought the shiver back.

If Nate was in the same situation, he would plot endlessly, and she feared Sterling's plotting. An enemy, ally, or friend? All of the above, and yet none of the above, all at the same time. If only Sophie were here in her place. She would find a way around all his masks and see his real intentions.

She wasn't a grifter; she didn't need that episode at the fair to know she had no skills. And yet, she had to find some way to grift that man into helping them for real. Even only knowing that he wouldn't hinder their escape would be enough; she needed nothing more.

Eliot would be of no help. Their mutual animosity and respect were too set in stone, and this trouble wouldn't change it. She was the only new factor in play; the only one who could do anything.

"Any new sounds around?" Sterling followed her outside, and she twitched before turning to him.

The agent looked awful. He hadn't taken off the silly hat and that was a good sign of how much he needed any warmth he could find. His face was ashen, and his eyes were burning with fever – and yet still too perceptive, too sharp on her.

"Nothing. I think two people are still there, probably keeping watch on the crime scene."

"That's good." He lowered himself down a few steps away, and his face lost one more nuance.

That man needed a hospital. What if they leave him here in the house? He would be able to call help and… No, she remembered his words. In this condition, nobody could protect him from the Koreans. Only Eliot could. That thought must've been driving him crazy.

He sat for a second just watching her, then shifted with a frown. "Here…" He wriggled his good arm out of the jacket; the frown stayed on his face. "Take this-"

"No, stop. Keep the jacket, I don't need it." She pointed to her hoodie.

"If you insist."

"I do."

This was awkward. The next thing, they'd be talking about the weather. Every little bit of information about him was useful. She might not know what to do with that info, but she had nothing else to work with. The fact he was incapable of sitting while a woman was standing next to him on a bus, or being warm while a woman was freezing, only showed his good manners. Even bad guys had good manners. But… an idea twinkled in her mind, and she smiled.

"You told me back in the house that you weren't a bad guy," she said. "That Min-Jung was only doing her job."

Her words caught him half way in buttoning up the jacket, and he raised his eyes to her. Normal gaze, with politely raised eyebrows that waited for her point. Yet, his hand clutched the button like a claw, frozen in a twitch.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said.

His eyes flashed with anger. "Thank you." He gritted the words out, abandoning every attempt to sound casual.

She nodded then tipped her head to their shelter. "He provides justice," she said. "You are the law. How much you are willing to bend that law, Sterling? Because without that, there might not be any punishment for her killers."

"Are you asking me if I would accept the mere justice, whatever it is in his mind, if I'm unable to provide the proper punishment for them all?"

"Yes."

"No. We will work together on this, under mutual conditions. _His_ justice is breaking the law – worse, annihilating the law. I will not tolerate that. I will find a way to get Denise and the Koreans without the plans provided by a psycho mercenary."

She smiled as gently as she could. "You say psycho mercenary like it's a bad thing."

"The fact we are in this mess together only means one thing: it will end. We shall work together if that's the way to deal with the situation, but the lines will be drawn."

"You only think that," she said. "In the words of your people, Sterling…If you can't handle the flames, chap, don't tickle the dragon."

He smiled. That wry smile reminded her so much of Nate; closed, attentive, with those sharp eyes – and she couldn't stop smiling back.

_Oh_. The sharpness was gone from his eyes; his features softened a bit in response.

He must've felt it, too, because he stood up and returned the frown on his face. "If you change your mind about the jacket, I'll be inside."

She only nodded, and watched him leave.

She was wrong – _he_ was the dragon here. He might be incapacitated and on a leash for now, but his flames could reach very far.

And how was she supposed to grift a dragon?

The reply to her own question surprised her in its simplicity.

_You don't grift a dragon. You tame him_.

She bit back her smile, and started to plot.

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Eliot snapped awake when he moved, and when bolts of pain shot through his shoulder. He lay on his right side, facing the entrance and light. He took a five-second inventory, fighting all disorientation, while he remembered where he was, why, and what happened.

A rustle of leaves behind his back. He held his breath, listening.

"Good morning," a gentle whisper breathed in his ear, and he relaxed.

"Don't move," Florence continued, and an arm sneaked – very carefully – around his chest. She was very careful not to press anything, and he had no intentions of showing her that even the slightest touch hurt him like hell. He felt scrambled, as if he'd been taken apart into little pieces, and put back together with his parts mixed up, sewn back up in haste.

"Nobody near," she said. "A few voices from the house, doing nothing, not coming closer. Sterling was up at one point, but he is sleeping, or unconscious, again. I think you've slept about three hours. This morning is cold and foggy."

He turned around and lay on his back – which drew extremely unwanted attention to his ribs and kidneys, battered by various Korean knees – and hugged her against his chest for the sole purpose of equaling the pain on all sides.

Three days of this, and he would be good to go.

"And now, woman…" he said. "I promised you a lecture about all the stupid things-"

She giggled and he melted. God, how he'd missed that sound. "No, seriously, you won't giggle me out of-"

"Wait, before the lecture – will there be any ducks in it? – I'll turn your phone on. I mean, the stolen one. I kept it turned off because of eventual tracking, but we should check now if Hardison posted something on Kim Leske's Facebook."

She reached for the phone and he gritted his teeth because of her wriggling, but still decidedly against expressing his pain in an outward moan. What the hell happened with that woman? He remembered her all soft and curvy – now she was all bones and elbows, and sharp edges.

A ping that came from the phone was promising.

"You sent Jonas' fingerprints to Hardison almost four hours ago. I guess it's time he sends…" she stopped and frowned. "No, it's not a notification. Just a low battery. It will die soon." She turned the phone off and returned her head onto his – thank god – right shoulder. "Do your survival skills include making a solar battery out of a piece of sandwich wrap and a flashlight? And why are you holding your breath?"

"Nope," he exhaled the word, slowly. "No reason."

"Though, a solar battery would be of no use for you recently. Have you even seen any sun in those months after Boston?"

"Rarely."

"Am I pressing or touching something painful?"

"Define painful."

"Oh, I see." She slowly moved away, shifting her weight off him, and he used that to push himself into a sitting position. This was unbelievable. He was positive he heard screeching sound from every joint as he moved. If he'd had the time, he would count all the hits he had received the previous night, plus bullets – but he had more urgent things to do now.

Florence watched him from a pile of leaves. "Are you sure it is wise to get up now?" she asked. "I was outside just a couple of minutes ago, everything is fine."

It wasn't wise, of course it wasn't. He should've been sleeping. He pushed himself off of the ground, and tested his shaky legs. An arthritic eighty year old would have swifter movements. He tried to cover that stiffness with an acted ease, but he knew she could see it. Good thing he was buttoned up to his neck, so she couldn't see all of the purple bruises.

"Stay here; I'll be back in no time," he said going out.

The fog was their best ally for now. He checked the outer perimeter neighboring their hiding place, searching for treacherous tracks they might've left stumbling in the darkness while getting there earlier. His own arrival was a blurry memory; the last part he had made on autopilot, solidly unaware of his surroundings.

The forest was quiet.

He didn't like it. Instead of returning, he climbed up to the road and took a wider arc from there, going almost half way toward the houses. Everything was clear, no sign of any danger; it seemed his ploy worked as expected.

_When everything works as planned, expect a shitstorm_.

Slow walking at the very least helped with his stiffness, though not so much with the pain. As his muscles and joints started to function again, the pain seemed to be waking up too, joyfully clawing at them with his every move. His left shoulder was frantically trying to hammer all his attention toward itself, and even the smallest movements helped to reinforce that. He put his left hand into the pocket.

A casual walk through the sleepy forest.

He knew his limits, and he knew he had almost depleted all his strength. Only sheer luck helped him to walk away from those fights without any serious injury. The accumulation was what worried him. This level of exhaustion and pain needed at least two days of licking his wounds. He had, maybe, five more hours. Maddox needed that time to spread and scatter his forces, driving the Koreans with them. Only if the net around them were stretched to the point of breaking, would they have the slightest chance to skip through it. There was no point in leaving this part of the woods just to face the road blocks around, near every junction and crossroads.

Time to heal, time to think. _Time to return and lie down_. Three hours of sleep helped him to survive this so far – now he needed more to return to fully functioning mode.

His jaw hurt, not because of the punches he received, but because he was gritting his teeth with every breath.

When he entered the shelter again, he saw immediately that sleeping wasn't an option.

That sleazy bastard was awake. Sterling's jaw was set firm; his teeth were clearly also gritted, he noticed with a dark gleam. The gleam faded when he saw that those teeth were gritted _at_ Florence. She sat before the agent, nudging him with a bottle of water.

She should've been resting too. She was awake while they slept, and her night had been a horrid nightmare of fear and struggle. The last thing she needed now was Sterling snarling at her. Killing the bastard was, for the moment, his only thought, but then he remembered that would only make him feel stupid for having carried him around for hours. And she would be upset. Probably.

"Still not dead, Sterling?" he said. "Need a hand?"

"_Now_ is the time for that question? Your timing is impeccable, as always."

"And what would you know about my timing? Or about anything else that-"

"Hey!" Florence waved with the bottle and threw it to him. He caught it and made the low grumble that escaped him look like he growled _at_ Sterling, and not the almost squeak that might have erupted, when he moved too fast. That definitely didn't improve his mood.

"Both of you need to drink," she added gently. Gently? She wasn't even looking at him, what would justify that gentleness, but at Sterling. "James, you've lost a lot of blood, you need fluids."

_James_.

Both of them looked at her the same way, with heads tilted, then noticed the synchronicity and glared at each other.

"What?" Florence watched them both, in turn. "Excuse me, but if now isn't the time for behaving normally, for a change, when will it be? I'm tired of you both snarling around. Be nice."

Eliot sighed, took a sip of water and sat back in the leaves, closing the third peak of their triangle.

"So…" Florence smiled at them with equal warmth. He flinched. "What's your plan?"

Sterling flinched too. "Your, as in mine?" the agent asked. "Or ours? We don't have _our_ plan. We only have _his_ ideas."

"Do you want one?" she said. She sat in a semi-lotus position, with her hands on her knees, and even though the light coming from outside didn't reach her face, the smile seemed to be glued to her lips. Still gentle.

Sterling watched her with the same weariness Eliot felt. "You're asking us if we want a plan?" The agent asked her.

"Exactly. You're a strategist, he's a tactician, and you don't have any plans. I'm a writer; I make them for living. I can give you a few possible plots to work on, plus or minus a season arc, if you don't want to think about-"

Eliot took another sip and cleared his throat. He knew she didn't mean it so this was some sort of play – a play he couldn't follow.

"Thank you, Florence." Sterling said with a level voice. "We'll surely-"

"We, Sterling?" This time he interrupted with his words. "There is no we. The last time we worked together, I ended up drugged and locked up. That would be enough not to trust you, even without this recent fuck up."

"Yeah, you're right." Sterling said. "I was so looking forward to you eventually being killed; what a plethora of possibilities would open up that way. But you're stubborn, as usual; messing up my plans… as usual. Working with you, now, on any plan, would be impossible."

Yeah, he recognized a prologue when he heard one. "But?" he said.

Sterling raised one eyebrow. "But… you can't deal with five Koreans without your team. I can't deal with five Koreans without my agents. That's the facts, and you can growl as much as you want, it won't change anything. I suggest we make a truce until we are sure that we're all out of imminent danger. When we're out of the woods, with a chance for contacting back up and turning the tables, then we'll reconsider our options. Until then, we work togeth…" Sterling frowned, as if the word was a dead fly in his mouth. Eliot shared the sentiment. "We can pretend to be allies for our mutual benefit. I won't screw you over – at least, not until we reach that out-of-danger point."

And much to his surprise, Eliot had no doubt Sterling really meant that. "Okay, we'll start with that."

He didn't like this proximity. As far as Sterling was concerned, he was a brute, always annoyed, loud and violent. Maintaining his role in front of the agent was already in jeopardy, never mind keeping it up for any length of time. He didn't have time to think about that right now, and the perceptive bastard must've noticed the change already. "I can't promise I won't occasionally hit you, though," he added. It wasn't enough, but it would work for now until he found the strength to concentrate on that matter once more.

"You're an amateur." Sterling rubbed at a purple bruise near his eye, and glanced at Florence. She blushed.

"What did I miss?" he asked.

She muttered something unintelligible, and waved her hand. "Go, make your plans," she said when they both waited. "And remember, be nice."

Yeah, the plans. He eyed Sterling. Sterling eyed him back.

He pulled the phone out and turned it on. "I'll check if Hardison got the message. They are three hours behind us, and I sent it in the middle of the night, so maybe he hasn't noticed it yet, much less sent any-"

A ping. He checked Facebook; a notification was waiting for him. Somebody liked his post on the page. And when he saw who, he almost laughed.

"What?" Florence leaned across to peek at the phone.

"Apparently, a guy named Jonas Kang liked my post. Let's see who is he…"

Even Sterling's eyebrows were raised in respect.

"Jonas Kang. Works at Boston City Hospital, twenty-eight years old, no criminal records, member of two groups. One is _Aeronautics Of The World Unite_ – I guess Hardison is trying to tell us that this guy has some connection with planes or airports – and another is… yeah, I guessed that one: _Second Generation Korean Club_. His favorite movie is _Sleeping Beauty_."

"So, a sleepers cell. Deeply infiltrated and under any radar," Sterling said. "Let me see him."

He threw the phone to the agent. Hardison hadn't found many pictures, but even those few were helpful enough. But something was strange in all that. He said nothing, watching as Sterling checked the profile.

Ten experienced and successful agents were priceless. Their worth as informants far exceeded the half a million dollars bounty resting on his head. And he didn't know who put up the reward – he had no name with which to connect. There were a couple of generals who were humiliated by a prisoner escaping their highly secured dungeons, and one of them might be pulling the strings to clear his name and restore his honor. But using ten moles at the same time, plus Denise, who was their collaborator, along with God-knows how many she had with her, well, that was overkill.

"Do you know who's behind this?" Sterling was clearly thinking the same.

"Nope. No names."

Sterling threw the phone back to him. "Can you direct your team to dig into that? Are they coming?"

"They are probably doing it already. And no, I told them to stay away." Though even while he was saying that, he knew he had no means to check. Those wackos might've been on their way already; no matter that he told them clearly that he didn't want them here.

"Ten of them," Sterling said slowly. "With their backup, their logistics, and an entire operation rolling behind them… no, I don't think that's the case here. We don't have a North Korean Special Force's' operation, Spencer… we have something more deadly. Unpredictable. Those ten went rogue. They are doing this job for themselves. They are after the money."

"Why is that more deadly?" Florence whispered.

Eliot sent her a smile he didn't truly feel. "Operations have rules and protocols. If you know enough about the principle, and we do, you can pretty accurately guess their next moves and reactions. Even if Hardison finds out who's fronting the reward, it means nothing now. They are on the loose, and we have no idea what their next step will be."

"So, what now?" Her eyes were big and dark.

Sterling smirked at them. "He is half a million dollars worth, and the two of us know too much. Now, we have to find a way to locate and destroy these highly skilled ghosts, who are unlikely to stop hunting us."

Sterling's words hung heavy in the damp air. They erased the smile from her eyes, and Eliot desperately searched for something more to say, to add, to change the sound of it.

And he had nothing.

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	11. Chapter 11

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 11

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The sharp pain from an involuntary movement woke Sterling up, and he blinked into the half-light. The traces of a blurry dream followed him; he had abruptly turned around feeling Spencer's fist flashing toward his face. That must've made him move in his sleep, and his shoulder screamed in agony.

This was just the last in a long line of painful stirrings; he was mainly drifting in and out of reality, as his fever grew.

Wednesday morning slowly crawled toward the noon hour. He should've been in hospital last night, and if he didn't get any medical help before this day ended, he would be in serious trouble.

At least, the fists flying around him weren't real; Spencer was sleeping closer to the entrance of their shelter. Anything that might have entered would have had to pass by the hitter first, and though the man seemed to be out cold, Sterling knew they were as safe as if they were locked behind three doors. But, that only reminded him of the fact he owed him his life, on top of all this.

Florence sat on the ground near Spencer. He was sure he saw her doing precisely that every time he woke up, as if nothing was more important than watching the hitter sleep.

That woman could write a book on _How to ruin your life in only two short days_. And she did have a chance to run away from that man. It was such a shame to witness someone pretty normal, and relatively good, involved with a man who would only suck her into his miserable life, or get her killed. Nah, it was none of his business. He had his own troubles to deal with.

He closed his eyes and tried to find a comfortable position, and yet stay awake. Relying on Spencer to come up with any plan that didn't include busting heads was futile; it was up to him to _think_.

Also, pretending to sleep would give him an opportunity to listen in on the two of them, and gather as much intel as he could.

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"I have something on Denise Clayton," Hardison said, and Nate flinched. The guy before him, on the other side of a bulletproof window, darted an inquisitive glance at Hardison who was only a step away, with a laptop in his hands. Nate took a car keys that guy gave him; his hand had whiter skin on his ring finger.

"He's googling the house of my ex-wife," Nate said to the guy and sighed. "Don't ask. Nasty divorce."

"Oh, that." The guy returned the sigh. "Good luck. Sign here, please. Welcome to Boston, ladies and gentlemen."

Nate scribbled a name Hardison provided along with a credit card, and waved to the hacker to follow him to the parking lot. Sophie and Parker behind them dragged a luggage cart full of Hardison's You-can't-be-prepared-for-nature-enough things.

Hardison arranged with their pilots to wait on stand-by for a couple of hours, until they saw what was waiting for them. Nate wondered if choosing a plane suitable for six passengers was by chance, or if Hardison thought that they would have to pull Eliot and Florence back to Portland with them.

After that, he wondered if he had chosen a van at this rent-a-car at Logan Airport just out of habit, or because of the same reason.

"Okay, listening," he said when Parker got behind the wheel, and he helped Sophie put all the bags in the back of the van. Hardison jumped in the front, still typing.

"No match in my facial recognition searches," the hacker said.

"You mean, Denise has no criminal record?" Sophie asked.

"No, I mean, no match. The face from the video doesn't match anything. Denise Clayton was one of those rare people who weren't active on the social media; no Facebook page, nothing like that. She didn't have any place where she would put her pics from vacation, or selfies. There are a few photos of her in group pictures from her previous units, including Baltimore Police Station, but imagine that quality. Blurry face with blond hair. I found her prom photos, and… no match. My program didn't recognize her there, and it fetches at least thirty markers on a face it's scanning."

"Denise Clayton _was_ one of the rare people, Hardison?" Nate asked.

"Yeah, you heard me. I think this isn't Denise Clayton. That means the real one is dead. I'm still trying to find something about the face from the video we saw – maybe if I find her, we'll be able to know more about this fuck-up. Sterling has had an imposter on his team – and maybe we now know who number 2741 is – a Korean linguist, a supervisor."

"If not a supervisor, certainly a mole who used Sterling, knowing he would be after Eliot via Florence." Nate thought for a second, and almost smiled. If this wasn't such nasty trouble, the mere thought of Sterling being tricked and used would be hilarious. "Anything else?"

"I have three Korean generals who might be behind this. Our mark has to be rich enough, influential enough, he would have been in Service at that time – and I only have approximate timings of Eliot's sapphire monkey adventure; mainly based on his remarks while we were solving the Dagger of Aqu'Abi fiasco. Do I have to explain how hard it is to find _anything_ about North Korean generals?"

"Of course we know, Hardison." Sophie sounded absent while speaking; she opened one of the bags and stared inside. Nate didn't really want to know what Hardison had packed.

"When I find out who that blonde of Sterling's is – I'll call her Denise until then – I'll make an extrapolation using her info and try to find a connection with those generals. If anything pings in my searches, that will be clear confirmation for both identities. But it takes time – time we don't have."

"Parker, how long to Brattleboro?" Nate turned to the front seat.

"Two and half hours if I drive under the speed limit, and only-"

"Nope. Two and a half hours it will be. We can't risk drawing attention to ourselves."

"If you say so," she said dryly.

The roar of the engine didn't sound happy.

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They had a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of water, both half empty, a couple of sandwiches, used first aid kit, a map, and several useless flashlights. Florence spread out all their possessions under the huge birch that hovered over their cave, and pulled the map open.

Sunset Lake wasn't more than ten miles away from Brattleboro. They could go north from here, to Townshend, or west, to Wilmington too. Small forest roads led in all directions. This walk wouldn't be as nasty as last night's had been – they would have clear woods, with no chase groups around them.

Her feet felt like minced meat, and she was aware of muscles she didn't even know she had. Walking was the last thing she wanted.

She closed the map and looked at the houses on the bank. The land line was still there, maybe more cars. If only they could-

"What are you doing?" Sterling asked behind her, and she quickly turned around. He stood by her tree, leaning against it with his hand. The suspicion in his eyes surprised her.

"Turning my phone on so I can sell you both to the Koreans and split the reward with them," she said. Only then she remembered her decision to be nice to her dragon. "And you?" she asked more softly.

"You took the backpack," he said.

So, he thought she was leaving, maybe going to do something stupid or dangerous, and hurried to stop her.

"Too dark inside to check everything."

She put the things back in, then sat on the ground and hugged her shins, watching him.

She smiled at him, and said no more.

He eyed her with the same wary look he had used when she called him James for the first time.

She only smiled wider.

"Tell me about Nate," she said.

"No. Why?"

"Because I thought, at the beginning, you were like him. Now I think you're more like Eliot."

The glare of stupefied insult flashed in his eyes, at the same time with a shocked _What_? emanating from the shelter. Eliot stood there, watching them.

He looked better. He kept his left hand in his pocket, and that shoulder was at least an inch lower, as he spared it of every movement possible, but at least his eyes were brighter.

She forced herself to remain sitting, and not to fly to him. "Both of you are Lawful Neutral," she said.

"You call him Lawful?" Sterling snorted.

"You call him Neutral?" Eliot snarled at the same time.

She turned to Sterling. "He _was_ true Lawful before. Maybe even Lawful Good, until he was betrayed and disappointed. And his change is going towards Neutral Good. You, Sterling, are in danger, because you are at the other end of Lawful Neutral… you're wavering towards Lawful Evil."

The two stares shared the same level of incomprehension. They looked at each other; Sterling raised his eyebrows. "How much time did she spend with Hardison, Spencer?"

Eliot shrugged. "I'm afraid she was this way even before she met team Leverage."

"Accept the higher authority, guys," she said. "Lawful Neutral isn't set in stone – it has many nuances, going from lighter to darker, but yes, you both fall into that category. I'm sure you're deeply offended. Deal with it."

"That's bullshit, Flo. You can't sort-"

"Parker is Chaotic Neutral," she said. Eliot shut his mouth and even Sterling stayed silent, both thinking about that.

"Anyway…" Eliot finally said. "I'll check the perimeter again. Stay here."

She eyed him as he walked away, still noticing his stiffness. He moved carefully, and that meant pain. Lots of it. But he _was_ better, she forced herself to think, and that very thought would return the smile to her face. She turned toward Sterling again, but only when she was sure she had managed to do that.

And he watched her, not Eliot leaving. There was no wariness in his eyes now, only something akin to thoughtful calmness.

She twitched under that gaze. "If that's your I'm-going-to-faint face, I suggest you sit down and lean against that tree," she said. Her attempt of a cheerful voice failed. She knew he read her every feeling while she watched Eliot, all her thoughts and worries. _And her love_. She didn't mind when Nate or Sophie did that, but Sterling's attempts at reading her felt abusive.

He slowly raised his head and looked at the birch above them. "Yeah. It's beautiful tree, isn't it?" He tapped the bark. "Gorgeous, I'd say. Strong and wild, and indestructible; the perfect choice to lean upon."

Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows in confusion.

"Too bad you can't tell what state its roots are in," he continued.

She glanced at the entrance of their cave, only three steps away. "Those particular roots keep the walls of our shelter together, and you're using them to lean on. What's wrong with-"

"When I watch trees, I don't look at the tree tops." His eyes never left her face. "I examine their rings. They tell a story of their past years, of health and struggle. There you can see the scars from lightning and forest fires, hungry years, and too much, or too little sun. And there are the trees that are so rotten, deep, deep down inside, that their trunk has only one, small healthy line that connects them with their roots. That single line keeps them alive; gives them enough to survive. But I wouldn't eat the fruits from that tree, no matter how rich their branches are. No matter how normal they appear outwardly."

She began a somewhat confused mental review. One corner of his mouth twitched up. _Oh_. She wondered did he know that he had revealed his _care_ for her with this.

This time she didn't have to fake her smile, or the warmth in it; it came naturally and colored her voice. "Damaged trees are the strongest ones, Sterling. They might be rotten and they often stand alone, but only because all the others weren't that strong. You don't like them because you can't use them to make a chair to sit on. They are twisted and knotted inside, beaten and broken, but alive. Oh, so very alive. And they give the best shelter from the storm. That's what they do."

He watched her for a few moments. "Yeah, you're right." He finally smiled and turned away, towards the lake. It looked as if he wouldn't say anything else, so she got up to return inside the shelter.

"Florence." His voice stopped her and she turned to him.

"They attract lightning." This time, his voice was cold and even. "If you are too close to them when they get hit, you will die."

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"Not a word." Florence raised her index finger to the two men sitting in front of her. Each of them held a sandwich in their hands, and they stared at her with identical betrayal flashed in their eyes. She had problems remaining serious. "You have to eat," she said. "Food is life."

Eliot made a choked sound without any apparent reason; he hadn't taken a bite yet.

"I agree wholeheartedly." If it was possible for Sterling to sound more British, he had just outdone himself. She filed that tone away under 'plotting with hostile intentions in progress', something else to pay attention to in the future. "However, this isn't foo-hrmpf." Eliot's elbow in Sterling's ribs was followed with a nasty sideways stare. Sterling sighed and lowered his eyes to his sandwich, looking almost sad.

Florence waved an encouraging hand. "Eat. You'll feel better." She pretended she didn't notice how Sterling's other hand clutched the bottle of whiskey when he took the first bite. Eliot did the same, only he had a bottle of water. She doubted it was humanly possible to take smaller bites, but she decided to say nothing. Besides, watching Eliot's attempt to smile at her while maintaining his tortured martyr expression was priceless.

She sat on the protruding root – yes, Sterling, it was strong enough to hold her – and wiggled her bare toes to dry them. She finally gathered enough courage to take off her shoes and see the damage. Water from an icy cold lake helped with the burning sensation. She felt almost human now. The next step was helping the others to feel human, and also installing some sense into her two-man army. This childish resistance towards her food had to stop.

Poking at them felt safe. One was a Southerner, and the other one a British gentleman, and she counted on their good manners. She also knew that a battalion of Koreans chasing after them wasn't enough to force them to play nicely together. That threat was too abstract for the moment; they needed something present. A common enemy right before their noses.

Taming a dragon started with the hand that fed him. She chewed her sandwich to set them a positive example, still unable to figure out what was wrong with it.

Then she remembered something and chuckled. "You know, maybe this day would've been completely different if only I'd given you something to eat when we first met, then formally introduced myself," she said to Eliot.

Sterling huffed at that. "Indeed." He waved with his sandwich. "This…abomination…gives a completely new meaning to the old question: What's the quickest way to a man's heart?"

"Between the fourth and fifth rib," Eliot said with a lazy smile.

Sterling seemed to be unaware of the warning, or immune by now. He smirked, chewed off another bite, and tried to swallow it – again, too polite to speak with his mouth full – and it ended with _grghhk_ and bulging eyes. Eliot sighed and handed him the bottle of water, taking the whiskey instead.

She watched them pretending she was occupied with her own food; she let her curls fall forward onto her nose. Through that veil she monitored the levels of compassion between the pair while receiving the same torture. They wavered right above zero, but at least they weren't gloating at each other's problems.

"I checked the phone a few minutes ago," she said. "Hardison hasn't sent anything more. Its battery won't hold out much more than an hour. We have my phone, but I can't turn it on because of the tracking. Any ideas?"

They glanced at each other.

"We'll leave here soon, and the dead phone won't be an issue," Eliot said. "And in emergency your phone will be enough, tracking or no tracking."

"The fog is clearing out," Sterling said. "This afternoon might even be warm and sunny. Can you define _soon_? In five minutes, five hours, or waiting until nightfall?"

"In five minutes. There aren't anymore pursuit groups in the woods, the chase moved out to the roads and towns. Maddox is extending the circle, and in those hours we rested, it's become wide enough. There'll be no road blocks near us, and we will be able to pass."

Florence took the last bite. "Walking again?" she asked, dusting the crumbs off her hoodie.

"No." Eliot offered her his sandwich. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he gave up. This time, before taking another bite, he took a sip of whiskey. At that point, she was half ready to believe that he was just pretending, to entertain her with this food fumble in a difficult time. But then, Sterling had no reason to do that, and his adam's apple moved slowly, as he tried to swallow.

She would've taken some time to ponder on that mystery, but Eliot's word meant something important. She concentrated on the situation. "So, if not walking, we'll drive," she said. "You will steal us a car from the houses?"

"It'llh bhe," Sterling tried, coughed, and then swallowed. "It'll be better if I go there, and _take_ the car, as an Interpol agent in charge. Depending on who's there, I can even ask them to contact Maddox in private, and warn him about possible moles and rogue Koreans. We'll ask for free passage until further notice – until we think of how to deal with the Koreans. Getting the police chase off our back will be a helpful start."

Eliot turned to glance at Sterling. Florence shared his suspicion. She tried to find any possible hidden meaning or sub-plot in Sterling's version of that action, but nothing came to mind.

Sterling smirked at them both. "Trust is such an evasive, yet abstract phenomenon, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Right." Eliot said slowly.

"I know you don't trust me – so stay close to hear what's going on."

Eliot closed his bottle, and wrapped the sandwich up. "We have no reason to delay now. Let's go." He got up.

"We have…" she tried to say, but Sterling was quickly following his example. "You didn't finish-"

"That's our only food," Eliot said. "It's too, too… precious, to be wasted, and eaten in a hurry. We'll save it for later."

"I couldn't agree more," Sterling added, fetching Eliot's sandwich and putting them both into her backpack. "He's right; we'll need them when we finish this next part of our plan."

"Okay, I'll save them," she said, and got busy with her socks and shoes.

She saw the relieved glances they exchanged, and lowered her head more to hide her smile.

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It took them only five minutes of slow walking through the now dispersing fog. Sterling set the pace, and Spencer and Florence walked behind him. He never turned around, but he was positive they were holding hands. He erased a grimace from his face, and put a confident, bossy smile, ready for anyone who was waiting in the houses for them.

No sign of life in either house, only in the one used as for bait before. He could see a Vermont State Police car parked out front.

Whoever was in the house, he was watching Brattleboro local TV station. Folk music, the yowling and scraping of enthusiastic amateurs, covered up Sterling's knock upon the door, so he simply entered.

He came face to face with a butt in a blue uniform; the rest of a man was in the cupboard where he clearly dug around for something. The butt swayed, following the rhythm. Another blue uniform danced in front of the TV, with one fist raised up in the air.

He cleared his throat; nothing happened. Only when he slammed his hand on the door, did that draw their attention.

The dancing cop turned; it was a girl in a uniform clearly too big for her. The dancing butt jumped to his feet; a man – a boy – too young even to shave. Maddox left his youngest, obviously, to put them out of harm's way of a dangerous fugitive. They stared at his head first, and he swore inwardly; he'd forgot to remove the damn elephant hat.

The girl smiled at him, revealing shining braces on her teeth. "Hi, I'm Megan, and he is Merlin. Who are you?" She pointed a remote at TV and mercifully the awful music disappeared.

Merlin took two steps closer, posturing with his shoulders. That effort only drew attention to his teenage overgrowth, and Sterling rolled his eyes. Seriously, was there an age requirement for cops in the US, or perhaps these two only looked like their prom was somewhere in their future?

"No, she means to say, we are officers Hasty and Walker," Merlin said. "We are here to watch the crime scene. You're not allowed to be in here."

"My name is James Sterling. I'm the head of this Interpol operation, and I work directly with your boss, Maddox Phillips. I was kidnapped by your suspect, but I managed to escape. I need your car."

"Wow. How cool." Merlin's eyes grew wider, and both cops hurried around him. "Sure, sure, we'll get the keys…" Megan dug into her pockets, Merlin went to the table. Two seconds later, they switched places – too fast to follow them with his tired eyes – and Megan headed for the kitchen. "I'm sure I saw them here – no, wait, Merlin, behind you, on the TV…" She returned mid-step, Merlin changed the direction, and… and they both pulled their guns out and pointed them at him.

"What are you doing?" He bared his teeth at them, and the fear in their eyes grew stronger.

"You don't know that you've left a witness alive," Merlin said. "Denise Clayton talked, she told everything to Maddox. You killed your agent and helped the fugitive. Don't move, or we'll shoot! You are under arrest for murder!"

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Of course Eliot didn't trust Sterling, Florence knew that. She could feel his silent attention jumping up three levels while they approached the house. Eliot kept her one step behind him when they sneaked closer to the window. She held his hand and tiptoed after him.

They positioned themselves under a window; it wasn't safe to peer inside until Sterling attracted all the attention onto himself. Florence tried to take a look, but Eliot pulled her down. She returned into his arms and leaned into his warm hug. As far as she was concerned, though they were really in quite a hurry, Sterling could actually take his time right then.

"If this works, we'll reach a point of out-of-danger," she whispered while they waited for Sterling to enter. Loud music covered any sound they made. "He said he won't double cross you before then. Do you trust him to-"

"Nope. But he is surprisingly honest in his betrayals."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"He won't betray you by not telling you he betrayed you. He always lets you know- shhh, he's in."

They listened to Megan and Merlin introducing themselves… and everything went south in a matter of seconds.

"Shitshitshit," Florence buried her face in his shirt to cover up her curses. "What now?"

Well, they didn't have too many choices. One of them was simply letting those cops arrest Sterling and get him off Eliot's back, and she took a few delicious seconds of reveling in that thought… but she knew that in the same moment those two cops would call Maddox, letting him know they had Sterling in their hands, all Koreans would also know that, and then it would begin. They would kill not only Sterling, but the two young cops too.

Judging by Eliot's unusually long consideration, he was on the same track she was.

"Nah," he said finally. "No point in returning all Koreans here when we'd managed to send them all over."

"You'll get him out of this?"

"I have to." He straightened up and stole a brief glance through the window. "But I'd rather face two Koreans than two scared amateurs with guns. Go to the front door and buy me thirty seconds – but only peek, stay outside, ready to duck."

"Don't hurt them!" she whispered, alarmed, but he only waved his hand and headed off around the back of the house – probably to the same back window he used when entering the house for the first time.

She hurried to the front door. "Oh, there you are!" She hoped her voice would cover up the sound of Eliot's entering. "I'm so sorry, officers, but don't worry, I'll take him away immediately. I hope he didn't bother you too much."

"What? Who are you?" Megan turned her gun towards her.

She took a step inside, smiling. "We own the sixth house, down the bank. Maddox told us it was safe to return now. Don't mind my father – he missed his medication this morning, and sometimes he likes to play out things that he hears on his TV."

Eliot showed on the door behind the cop's back, and he was just about to step into the living room. Both him and Florence had a perfect view of Sterling's perplexed face. The cops lowered their weapons while listening to Florence – but Eliot's glare lashed out at her. She hadn't only peeked inside. Instead she stood through the door, completely visible. She smiled gentler, just in case.

"Do you really think that an Interpol agent would wear this on his head?" She sighed and stepped forward. She took Sterling by his upper arm, and gently nudged him forward. "Let's go home, mommy will be worried." She avoided looking at Eliot, now standing only two steps behind the cops.

"I'm not- I don't look like-" Sterling stopped. His inner struggle was visible, but this time she didn't have time to gloat at his discomfort. Eliot cleared his throat. Both cops jumped and turned towards him, and he simply took the guns straight from their hands.

Merlin took a step forward, but Eliot pointed a gun at his head. "Stop. Both of you go first. Hands on the wall, spread your legs. The first one who talks gets a bullet."

"Don't scare them," Florence whispered while he escorted the cops over to the wall. Of course he would scare them, she added inwardly. Young inexperienced cops couldn't decipher accurately the exact amount of danger, and he really didn't need them jumping on loaded guns. He silently dismantled both weapons.

"You owe me – again," he said to Sterling. "Start thinking about your repayments."

Sterling's glare at Eliot was murderous. "You two," the agent turned to the cops. "Tell me about Denise Clayton's statement."

"We saw the report on TV," Megan said. Her voice trembled, and Florence frowned. Eliot shrugged at her silent accusation. "She said you stopped her from disarming the suspect – this guy here – and you killed your other agent, and then shot her."

Florence took the remote and turned the TV on again, but only live music from the fair played on the screen.

"What now?" she asked. "Sterling, now we can't count on any police help – and we, all of us, now have even more enemies."

"That's just a temporary nuisance," he said. "Really – your _father_? You couldn't come up with something more convincing?"

"They're young – and you are old enough to be their father. Now, if we have a few minutes while you think of our next step, I'd like to go use a real bathroom, while I still have a chance."

"We'll rob the fridge to get some real food," Sterling said.

She grinned at him. Much to her surprise, he grinned back.

"Megan, run!" A loud cry from her left almost pierced her eardrum.

Merlin pushed himself off the wall and slammed into Eliot, who took a step back and put both guns in his pocket, while the young cop waved his fists around him, trying to hit him. Megan didn't run, instead she withdrew from them and pulled out her phone. Before either Florence or Sterling had time to react, Eliot pushed Merlin aside, and hit Megan's hand with his. The phone flew away. Florence smiled at the ease and cautious care that he showed while dealing with the youngsters; it seemed he was more concentrated now than when previously dealing with the Koreans. In only three seconds, both cops had their hands twisted at their backs; he held them immobile, with an unhappy frown on his face.

Sterling watched Eliot with his head tilted, and Florence paid attention. When the left elephant's ear was lower than it's counterpart, it meant Sterling was thinking hard about something that was confusing him. She added that to her list of _things to know about that bastard_, and promised herself to make an episode with the sleaziest Interpol agent in the world as a double agent and a bad guy.

Sterling didn't say anything, so she continued on to the bathroom.

Dear God, the hot water was bliss. Refreshing as it was, it didn't erase all the effects of their gruesome night trekking through mud and leaves, nor could it help with her swollen eyes. Only a lengthy sleep would put her back into a fully functioning mode. Though, for now, this was all she could get to keep her going.

She hurried up when angry voices rose above the music, and she returned to the room right at the moment when Eliot's fist slammed on the table between him and Sterling.

"What's going on?" she stepped in between two mad glares; both of them softened a little as they turned towards her.

"He wants to bring them with us." Eliot said, indicating with his hand at the two cops, handcuffed and sitting with their backs against the wall.

"And he wants to leave them here," Sterling snarled his response. "Anybody could stumble upon them, and they will sing everything they heard in here. And they heard a lot; too much."

"We can't burden ourselves with two hostages! We'll need speed for optimum reaction, and we don't know what awaits us. The Koreans won't hesitate to kill them if we put them in their way – and they are of no use to us."

The left elephant ear sank back down again. Sterling took a step back, felt the chair behind him, and sat. For the moment he looked as if on the verge of passing out, but he released a long breath before offering, "Two cops driving their car would get us through dangerous spots on the road."

Much to her surprise, Florence agreed with him. If they left them here, nothing would guarantee that any of the Koreans wouldn't, for whatever reason, check this house again and find them. But she also knew what really troubled Eliot.

"Eliot," she said. "They will be safer with you, than here. Sterling is right."

His eyes hardened.

Sterling rubbed his forehead. "Look, Spencer," his voice sounded weary now. "If we leave them, they can free themselves somehow, or someone will do that for them. They will report us. But what if those Koreans might want to hear the report first hand, to ask their questions straight from the horse's mouth. And you know what will happen after that."

Merlin shifted by the wall. "What Koreans-

"Shut up!" Two identical snarls lashed out at the cop; he shut his mouth.

Florence said nothing, just watched Eliot thinking. He was going through each possible reason Sterling might have for this, just like she did – and just like her, he didn't find a single, logical one. Tactically, Sterling was right. And they couldn't see his strategy behind it, at least not for now.

"All right," Eliot finally said. "They'll drive. Maybe their uniforms will be enough, if we get stopped. But-"

A song from the TV ended in the middle of a guitar riff, and a female voice, excited and clearly high on caffeine started talking.

"We are back at Interpol HQ outside of Brattleboro. We have new information about the ongoing police and Interpol chase. Our reporter is once more with Denise Clayton, the brave agent, injured in the line of her duty; she continues to work on solving her friend and colleague's tragic death."

Florence flinched when Denise appeared on screen, and her hate blossomed with renewed force; a damn killer stood in _her_ living room.

"Our other colleague has only now managed to return from the chase." Denise's voice was weak, almost a whisper. "She brings important news."

A camera turned to the side, towards a gorgeous, yet exhausted face of a young black woman.

"Amanda," Sterling said; no, he spat the word out, anger and betrayal seeping through every syllable.

"We almost caught our suspect, Eliot Spencer, only a few minutes before he stole a car at Sunset Lake," Amanda said. "I shot him, twice. He has a bullet in his shoulder, and in his side, and he's running out of time." She looked directly down the camera. "I'm calling for you to surrender, Mr. Spencer. You will receive a fair trial, and your life can be saved. Let's end this madness. Turn yourself in – or you will die."

"What the hell…" Florence whispered. Eliot stood frozen; she couldn't see his face, but she could read his stance. "What's this? Why-"

"They're in our house," Eliot finally whispered. That _whisper_ stopped her in mid rant. It stirred even Sterling from his maddening stare at the TV. Her heart sank.

"What's going on?" She couldn't help it; her voice went out small and scared. "Eliot?"

He turned to her; controlled rage whirling very close underneath the surface. His eyes were hard and deadly. "That house is the last solid trail to us," he said. "Nate will go there first. He has nothing else to follow; only woods. They are leading them directly there."

And even if the team obeyed his message and stayed put – what she doubted they would – after this news about him being severely wounded, there wasn't any chance they wouldn't come. She cleared her throat to remove the lump of fear that was stuck there.

"I don't believe Nate paid any attention to your assessment of the situation anyway," Sterling said. "They are probably already on their way – or even close by. That means, if they see this _now_-"

"They will hurry up," Eliot finished. "And fall directly into the hands of remaining Koreans. The trap is probably already set."

"Well, isn't that ironic," Sterling said. "I planned to get them here using you, deep in trouble… amongst a few other possibilities. They are recycling my plans."

"Great, think about it while we drive. Florence, find the keys. Sterling, move."

"Let me guess," Sterling smirked. "We are _not_ going to Maddox to try and explain this, and then use his forces to finish this for good? You will run directly there, into the five remaining Koreans? That's your genius tactical move?"

Florence took the car keys from the table. Eliot went to the cops to get them on their feet, but he stopped. He turned to Sterling, and a ghost of a smile flew over his face.

"As a strategist, you should recognize an enemy's mistake when you see one," he drawled the words, slowly. "They've collected all five of them, in one place. I don't have to search for them anymore."

Silence fell heavy while they watched each other. Florence resisted the need to shift on her feet, to move, to do anything.

Sterling finally nodded. "I see what you mean," he said. "And I know what result you want. But the chances are lousy."

"I'll think of that when I'm done with them," Eliot said.

Okay, this was too much. Both of them now talking about something, _together,_ but keeping her out of it?

"What result are you talking about?" she said.

"Nothing," both of them said at the same time. Eliot pulled the cops to their feet, Sterling got up, and Florence just blinked. Maybe this was a good sign, she said to herself. She did want them to work together. Their conflicts weren't that unforgivable, and if they bonded here, even just a little bit, that could mean a lot at the end… but damn it, she didn't count on them keeping _her_ out of things.

"Florence, help me put them behind the wheel," Eliot said. She fastened her backpack, smiled at the scared cops as gently as she could, and followed him out.

Sterling stood on the same spot. They turned to him.

"Coming?" Eliot asked, impatience coloring his voice.

"You go, I'll come in a minute," Sterling smirked. "We forgot the crucial thing."

"What?"

"The fridge."

Eliot rolled his eyes and pushed the cops in front of him. She resisted the need to stick her tongue out at Sterling, and followed them out.

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Sterling waited until he heard the car doors opening, than searched the floor.

Megan's phone – hit by Spencer's hand and knocked aside when he disarmed the cops – lay behind the couch. He picked it up and proceeded to the back room, closing the door after him. When the music from the TV became only a muffled sound, he checked the contacts. Maddox was listed there.

The captain answered the call after only one ring.

"Yeah, Megan, is something happening?"

"Do you really think that a high ranking Interpol officer, in charge of a massive operation would simply kill one of his agents and aid the escape of a fugitive he was after?" he said.

A second of consternated silence. "How did you get my cop's phone? What did you do with-"

"They are both fine. Maddox, listen to me – I'm not a killer. I was kidnapped and taken. You have no idea what's going on, nor how big this thing is. The fact I'm calling you – and giving you the chance to locate me – should mean something to you."

"Okay, if we presume you're telling the truth-"

"We don't presume anything – you'll have all the evidence, all the set-up information, in a matter of hours. I will hand you a murderer on a silver plate. But I have to play along for now and can't change my position."

"I'll need more than that."

Sterling sighed. He listened to the voices from outside; Florence's comforting murmur that silenced the threat in Spencer's voice, and the united whining of two frightened kids. "Okay, only the basics. I'll tell you what I need from you. Listen up, and don't make notes…"

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	12. Chapter 12

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 12

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Megan drove, and Merlin bit his nails on the front seat.

Oddly enough, the Vermont State Police patrol car wasn't the most comfortable car in the world, but sitting on the back seat with Florence and Spencer, tightened Sterling's jaw in a permanent clench. The seating arrangements pissed him off even more; both him and Spencer had to find a good position for their injured shoulders, and they changed places three times, finally settling with Florence in the middle. He couldn't decide what was better – to lean with a wounded shoulder against the door, or expose it to Florence's constant shifting. The tough I'm-fine-I'm-not-hurting idiot on the other side had the same problems, plus playing a hero in front of his damsel.

In the end, both of their shoulders ended towards the middle. Florence was less dangerous than any metal door.

Spencer crossed his arms as if that wasn't a problem at all, but Sterling knew he did that for protection. Not a bad idea. He did the same – almost passing out in the process – but it did help with keeping his arm immobile.

He saw Spencer's smirk, and raised him with a scowl. A bullet hole was the real deal, not some dislocated and relocated shoulder.

Since they had driven away from that damn lake, Florence kept her elbows on the backrests of the front seats. She _chirped_ to the cops.

Sterling rolled his eyes exactly nine times – he counted – because her babbling was a mixture of convincing the cops of the giant misunderstanding, Hollywood gossips, apologies, and spoilers for her entire season six.

Yet in the end, that giant heap of bullshit actually worked; the cops were too young and green, and in their world celebrities weren't criminals. Florence was the author of a famous series; ergo she must've been framed.

By the time they reached the first road block, Merlin stopped biting his nails, and he turned to the back to listen to her.

But worst of all, her chuckle was genuine, she didn't pretend. How could this woman, full of contagious joy, fall for Spencer anyway? Sterling sank deeper in the seat, not believing when he realized that she had managed to brighten the bleak atmosphere in the car.

Spencer saw his scowl, and raised him an evil grin.

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"We have to stop north of the house."

"That ridiculous, south is better. We have to be below the house and the road that leads to it."

"Bullshit. North and above."

Florence sighed. Sterling and Eliot fired each of their sentences over her head. She leaned closer to the cops in front of her, and rested her chin on Merlin's backrest. "And this never stops," she whispered.

The quarrel behind her abruptly ceased.

"Megan, turn the damn car up the hill, above the house," Eliot said.

"Megan, darling," Sterling said. "Would you be so kind as to park us some nice place below the house?"

Florence met Megan's glazed eyes in the rear mirror. The young cop waited for her decision.

"Wait," she whispered and then in a normal voice, turning to the back of the car, asked, "Why below and why above?"

"If we stay below the road and the house, we have a clear path for retreating all the way down to the Connecticut River Valley," Sterling said.

"We ain't retreating," Eliot said. "If we're above the house, we have a perfect view of the surroundings, all roads and cars."

"Go above, north," she said to Megan.

"Typical," Sterling said.

"Hey! I backed you up when you wanted to bring the two of them with us, because that was better than Eliot's idea. Now, his decision is better. Stop whining."

She grinned at them both. Each of them had their arms crossed and identically grim faces. They even leant against their respective doors in the same way.

The cop turned the wheel in the given direction.

They left the familiar road that led to their house. Florence couldn't believe they had walked here only yesterday. She didn't know this smaller road, though she could tell where they were; they stopped a couple of hundred meters left and above. The house was visible, and so was the garden, on the downward slope to the main road.

A thick fog this high in the hills wasn't that milky bowl that had hung above their heads near the lake; this one was torn into light veils traveling slowly on a ghost of a breeze.

Florence secured her backpack tighter. Eliot was already out of the car; he pulled the cops out. His hands were on the back of their necks while he directed them away from the car. For anybody else – for Sterling too – that would've looked threatening and violent, but for Florence it only brought around an image of kittens being carried away. She did frown a little when the trio disappeared deeper into the forest. Sterling was openly pissed off, but that was old news.

"I wrote total of six episodes containing scenes where there was sneaking into houses nestled in forests," she said taking Eliot's place by the door. "Do you want some useful tips?"

"Spare me." He rolled his eyes, still sitting.

She observed him thoroughly – and that annoyed the hell out of him –wondering how much more he'd be able to stay on his feet. Judging by his ghostly face, Eliot would again have a burden to carry around.

"What?" Sterling asked after only five seconds. He surely didn't like when she silently watched him, with only a smile.

"You're twitchy as if you have a guilty conscience," she said, and warmed her smile even more, so as to test her theory.

"I have."

She blinked under his steady gaze, and her smile faded. Tickling a dragon, even if he had an arrow in his knee, wasn't just dangerous because of his flame; he could also swing his tail and slap her from out of nowhere. She pulled her feet up on the seat and made herself comfortable. The heat in the car was on maximum while they drove and it was still warm inside.

"You must be happy with this turn of events," she said. "Nate and the team will come. Do you think he will be happy with your part in our troubles?"

"What makes you so sure their arrival would be a good thing for you?"

"You're right." She titled her head a little and frowned. "Those people are nightmare when it comes to common sense."

That stirred a memory in his eyes; his lips went up in an involuntary smile.

She didn't wait for his response, she quickly continued. "But they are a family. It will be painful for you to watch their interaction with each other, after your own agents betrayed you."

_Bingo_. Her blind barrage of fire hit something; his eyes darkened and closed.

"So, you think that team Leverage is perfect, loyal and trustworthy?" he said with a chilling evenness. "Eliot never told you how he paid Sophie's betrayal of the team with two broken ribs and concussion, while Parker and Hardison were arrested? All because our precious art thief got greedy, and she tricked the team into the trap?"

Oh. She didn't know that.

"And Nate? I don't know where to start. That self-centered bastard risks their lives on a daily basis, and one day he will kill them all." Sterling watched her the same way she had watched him before, and she almost flinched. "You're idealistic, Florence. They helped you – but you don't know them. They aren't nice people or romantic heroes. The force that drives them will destroy them. It's inevitable. It's only a matter of time."

"You know a lot. But you never spent days with them, together in deadly danger. You never saw them vulnerable, scared, or hurt. You saw only things they show to the enemy."

"But I've watched them during the past five years. Their end is near."

Her mouth went dry. "What do you mean?"

"Nate is convinced he is the best, invincible, and his sense of danger is naught to zero. Sooner or later he will make a mistake, or meet someone better, or step on someone too big for them. Don't be nearby when that happens."

Eliot's return stopped her reply, and Sterling's words were left hanging in the air. She would proclaim this a snake whisper, meant to disturb her, but there wasn't any gloating in his voice, just a strange tone that she couldn't decipher. Almost as if his anger at Nate was protruding; he sounded bitter.

She turned to Eliot when he opened her door. He brought the cops' jackets, and gave one to each of them. "I've left them handcuffed to a tree far enough away," he said. "Wear this. You can pose as one of the two cops on watch. There's so many police around, and local cops maybe don't know all of the State Police. With this car, you can pose for long enough."

"Yeah, the Koreans will also be deceived by that, sure," Sterling said. "They'll wait for your team; they are here. Probably nearby. If we were below the house, we could monitor the road, and stop Nate on time. Now we have a perfect spot for watching him falling right into their hands."

Eliot leant with his good shoulder on the open door, just a few inches above her head, and she heard a low growl building in his chest. Florence frantically searched for something to say, to ease the tension. Nothing came to her mind.

"The Koreans won't be this high, for the same reason," Eliot said. The deadly edge in his voice should've been warning enough – it surely was for her - but Sterling paid no attention. His smirk only grew wider.

"In times like this, I regret, deeply, that I don't have any coffee to offer you," Sterling said.

"Yeah, that would work twice for sure. Now shut up, if you want to end this shit in one piece."

Florence slouched her shoulders when their murderous stares met above her head. She mentally added _bzzzzt, bzzzzt_, and wondered who would have the blue, and who would have the red light-sabre out of the pair. "Is there any way for you two to deal with that Dubai problem before we continue?" she asked.

"I don't have a Dubai problem," Sterling grinned. "He does."

And he was right. She raised her eyes to Eliot hovering over her door, and regretted she stayed inside. He looked like he was able to jump-start this car without cables. "Hey," she said in a small voice. "You weren't hurt? He only drugged you?"

"Only?"

"Yeah, only," Sterling said. "He was out for just a few minutes. For crying out loud Spencer, your ego is enormous. You just can't stand the fact you fell for that, that's all."

For the moment Florence was grateful Eliot was on her side of the car. He would have to squash her if he attempted to drag Sterling out. She had only seen this cold rage once or twice; it was much more dangerous that his fiery one.

"My ego." Eliot's voice fell to a colorless whisper. "You endangered my team, you fucking bastard. You eliminated the hitter from the play, in the middle of the action, leaving them without protection. They were surrounded by security and Kazakhstani terrorists."

"And nothing happened." Sterling waved an impatient hand. "Okay, what's the big deal? You are constantly beaten, hit, slammed into, and it staggers me as to why one drugged cup of coffee all of a sudden seems so outrageous? I had to move you away. Would you prefer that I brought five thugs to beat you up or shoot you?"

"You don't screw people you work with!" Eliot slammed his fist on the hood. "And even worse: we worked _for_ you on that job. You might protect the law, Sterling, but you lack honor. You don't even understand what that word means."

"You're not a parent. There's no law, no honor, more important than protecting your child."

"Why hadn't you told us?"

"That's what Nate had asked me, too. He never knew, back when we were friends, that I had a daughter and-"

"No, Sterling. Not before. Why didn't you tell us that she was the priority job in Dubai?"

"You would have come if I had told you?"

"And _that_ is the thing you don't understand." Eliot's voice fell, tired and raspy. "If you had told us about Olivia and asked for our help, I would've gotten her out…or died trying. All of us would have."

Florence held her breath when she heard the raw hurt in his voice; Sterling couldn't read that, thank God, but he did read something. He took a long breath, and let it out slowly. "I tried to arrest you – and I'm still trying to do that - I messed up your jobs and used you several times… and you're pissed off because I didn't _trust_ you?"

"I know what to expect from you, Sterling. You don't. You don't know us, and that makes all your efforts irrelevant. You're not a threat – you're just a pain in the ass without any real power to harm us, because you've never taken time to really figure us out."

Sterling said nothing, and his sharp gaze drifted aside for a moment.

It was enough for Eliot to level his voice. "From now on, no more jokes about drugged coffee and Dubai." He closed the door and straightened up. "Now stay in the car and rest. I'll go closer to the house and see if I can find out what's going on in there. I'll circle around the perimeter, and then find a good place to monitor the house for a short time. It'll take an hour, maybe a little more. When I get back you better have a plan, or I'll go with collecting all five Koreans, and that might not end well. Florence, you'll come with me."

Sterling waved his hand again, and sank deeper in the seat.

Eliot nodded. Florence hurried after him.

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"I can't hear you, Becker, repeat…" Hardison waved to Parker to drive away from the crowd. Their van got stuck between two open stages with loud music. An applauding roar around them made any conversation impossible.

Nate went to the front of the van and took the passenger seat. GPS was useless with these new traffic regulations in Brattleboro. Cops on every other corner guided the traffic in new directions. Too many cops. Parker radiated a nervous energy, set in high alert mode. Her smile was frozen and just slightly manic. Nate watched the town, but sat sideways, so he could keep an eye on Hardison's pacing in the back.

"No, Becker, don't even think about – look, two boxes arrived, you said so. Use them as a base for a menu, and if that's not enough, combine oca with potatoes, sweet potatoes, anything you can think of. Yeah, go check, I'll wait." Hardison put his call on hold and waved with the phone towards him. "Becker's not sure about amount of tubers he'll use, and he wants to use our _plants_! He said their roots already have small tubers, though they are young."

Nate sighed. In just a matter of hours, four boxes of 'misplaced orders' became 'our plants'. "And the problem is…?"

Hardison made a choked sound. The hacker stood stupefied and his stare drilled into him. "That would kill them."

Nate tried not to smile at the thought of getting rid of the one-hundred and ninety-six plants swarming their office. And growing. "Wait, you're planning to keep them?"

"I ain't doing no planning! But you can't bring George some company, and then kill 'em all before his eyes; that's inhumane. Plants talk, you know? They exchange information, they can even warn each other about danger, using-"

"Hardison, cut the call." Sophie said. She sat on the heap of duffel bags and monitored his other laptop with searches and news on many little screens.

Nate hoped her voice was hard because of the headphones she used to cover up the outside noise, but when he met her eyes, glazed dark with worry, he knew he was wrong.

"Just a second, Sophie, I'll wait for Becker to see-" Hardison turned towards her, stopped talking, and quickly clicked off his phone.

"Here's the recording of a report from the temporary Interpol headquarters, outside of Brattleboro." She brought the laptop forward and turned it towards Nate. "We have a new Interpol agent in play."

They caught a few seconds of Denise when she spoke of her colleague returning from the chase, and a black woman took her place.

"_We almost caught our suspect, Eliot Spencer, only a few minutes before he stole a car out by Sunset Lake_," the black agent said. "_I shot him, twice. He has a bullet in his shoulder, and in his side, and his time is running out._" She looked directly at the camera then. "_I'm calling for you to surrender, Mr. Spencer. You will have a fair trial, and your life can be saved. Let's end this madness. Turn yourself in – or you will die._"

Parker stopped the van.

Nate quickly turned forward to tell her to continue – they didn't need police paying attention to them now – but it was a cop that stopped the traffic to let a crowd pass across the street.

"This is a recording, Nate," Sophie's voice fell flat like a stone. "We don't know how old this news is. He might-"

"Yeah, I know." He lowered his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "Hardison, where is that Headquarters?"

"We are heading there already. The house Eliot bought – I recognized the interior, and there are still crime scene lines behind the agents."

"He might've been caught," Sophie finished her sentence. "Or already dead."

"Parker," Nate waved his head to the cop, and the thief lowered her window.

She stuck her head out. "Oh, officer!" she chirped. "What about that criminal we've heard about? Are we safe here? Has he been caught, or killed, or…"

"No, Ma'am. He is on the run far away from here, our forces are after him. The town is safe. Enjoy your stay."

"That's great news! Thank you!"

She shut her window.

Silence lingered for a few moments. All of them weren't moving, only staring in front of themselves, and Nate knew that a frantic cacophony of possible complications, actions and their likely solutions, ran through their minds. The same mess reeled inside his brain, still unable to sort itself out.

"I have that house in GPS," Parker was first to break the silence. "It's outside of town, not even a five minute drive up into the hills. But we'd be faster on foot, than driving through the fair."

"No, don't drive directly there… take us somewhere near." Nate looked at the dark green hills surrounding the town. "Find a good spot for observing. Maybe the closest hill?"

"Yeah, I can do that. I will…" Parker's words trailed off, and all of them looked to see what had silenced the thief.

Right before their noses, a big group of Korean tourists armed with cameras, hats and wide smiles crossed the street in a long line, cackling happily as they passed.

"You gotta be kidding me!" Hardison's moan reflected Nate's thoughts, too.

Some of them were exceptionally tall.

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Eliot went uphill first.

The mere thought of leaving her with Sterling this close to the house was disturbing, though taking her with him, even closer to the danger, wasn't soothing him either. There wasn't any safe spot for them now. At least, if they got attacked, he would be there and able to fight back.

Florence followed him in silence. She kept a good pace, but two vertical lines were cut between her eyebrows. He knew that frown; deep thinking about something disturbing. He hoped she wasn't musing over that Dubai shit. He'd had enough of that conversation.

This part of the forest was unknown to him, but they were lucky; many clearances with a perfect view to the house spread around them to choose.

"Sit there at the edge, and keep an eye on the house and road," he waved at the bushes surrounding a small meadow. "I'll be back in a minute."

The quick kiss that landed on his lips almost surprised him. He was so concentrated on their surroundings, in full protection mode, that he forgot he could touch her or kiss her along the way.

"Go, go. And hurry back." She smiled – reading his confusion correctly – and perched herself on a heap of dry grass between two bushes. The sun shone through the layers of the fog, and her hair glittered gold. "I don't like that we left Sterling alone," she said.

"Because of his safety, or because you don't trust him?"

Her raised eyebrows were her only answer.

"I smashed the police car-radio while he was raiding the fridge in the lake-house," he said. "And I searched the car; there's nothing in there he can use." He raised his hand with the car keys in it, and she giggled.

"You locked him in?"

"He's freezing because of the blood loss. Staying in the car will keep him warm." He threw the keys to her, hoping she wouldn't connect the dots and figure out why he was giving them to her, but his luck today was lousy. She frowned.

"I said hurry back," she said. "I'm not moving from here until you return. Now go already."

Yeah, he had to move. "Cover your hair with the jacket, it's too shiny," he said and turned away.

First, he searched in a circle around her hiding spot, and widened it until he was sure not even a squirrel was anywhere near her.

Only after that he did the same with the house. He took note of every cover, blind spot, eye-lines from the windows and garden, and calculated the time and distances. Except for the house that swarmed with voices and activity, the woods were quiet and empty, wrapped in the fog.

Two police cars were parked in their garden, in front of the porch, along with a small van with the Brattleboro TV station logo. A big vehicle that he would describe as Lucille's cousin on steroids, dark, with no logo and on six wheels, occupied the part near the entrance, down by the road. It screamed Tactical vehicle from a miles distance. No logo meant Interpol.

If a trap for Nate were set, here at the house, Denise would find a way to get rid of all of the vehicles from the garden. With all the cops in the house with her and the agents, it wasn't likely that all five Koreans were inside too.

He finished his tour with one more, wider check of the perimeter, than headed up the hill towards Florence.

The small open patch in the clouds and fog had closed while he was gone, but even without the sun the day was much warmer. She hadn't put on the jacket she took off her hair once the sun disappeared.

"I think I saw you once," she said when he sat in the grass beside her, and rested his back against a tree. "Or I wanted to see you – you were just a darker spot in the fog amongst the bushes."

He looked down the hill in the direction she pointed, at the part where the forest was closest to the fence surrounding the house. The house partially blocked their view, but most of the front yard with the cars was right before their noses. They had a perfect spot to monitor the activity there. "Anyone go in or out while I climbed up?"

"Not at all. You plan to observe from here?"

"Yeah, for a while. The trap isn't in the house, or they would have removed the cars. It might be set up on the road to Brattleboro, but I think they would simply let Nate and the team come closer."

"Why? How does she know they will be there, observing?"

"Remember, Denise knows how we work. She knows Hardison would try to access their Wi-Fi first. I can bet she set the alarm to ping if that happens. The moment she knows they are around and close, she will call the Koreans who are somewhere near, but not suspiciously near. Maybe even in the town."

"If I were her, I would put all five Koreans in that dark robust van and use it as a Trojan Horse."

"Only if all the Interpol agents were working with them, and that's not likely. Even Sterling couldn't be that unlucky with human resources. No, she'll keep the Koreans handy, but hidden somewhere else."

"Move a little." She sat beside him and rested her back on his chest. It was a perfect chance to test his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, resting his chin on her hair.

"Now we look like a normal couple on a beach or camping trip," she said. He searched her voice, but there was no bitterness in it, no regrets.

"We will never be a normal couple." He didn't want to say that, but the sooner she-

"If we talk like a normal couple, if we act like a normal couple… than we are."

"Returning to my duck lessons, are we?"

"I'm a fast learner."

She surely was. And he hated it, loathed the fact she had to learn to accept this trouble he put her into. He leant down and kissed her ear and neck – still watching the house over her shoulder – and decided to say nothing. She relaxed into him with a contented sigh, her tension dissipating.

They needed this time. _He_ needed this time alone with her. No Sterling to interrupt with his sleazy accent, no immediate danger, just her warmth in a dreamy fog.

_A normal couple, right_. No matter what she'd said about it, her future was a burning pain in his side. Giving her her life back was as equally important as keeping her alive. Sterling knew that, the bastard knew what thoughts crossed his mind when they realized this Korean cell went rogue. They were working on their own for money, and they certainly wouldn't share crucial information that could lead others to their prey. There was still a possibility that her connection to Eliot Spencer stayed in this small circle.

But that would also mean that he would have to kill them all to prevent them from talking.

It wasn't time for thinking about that, and he chased it away, kissing her again to erase that from his mind.

It worked, as always. "You're half woman, half chocolate," he whispered; he traced the line of her neck with soft kisses, and her shiver took his breath away. "Both addictive."

"And both dangerous for your health." Her fingers traced along his left arm to the shoulder, and kept the light touch there. He was careful not to change his breathing or tense his arm; she would notice that.

"You were a danger for me from the first day," he said to move the accent from their current trouble.

"No, I wasn't. I'm pretty positive you considered me as only a nuisance in the beginning."

"I didn't mean danger as in attraction – I meant a literal danger. The first thing you did was threaten me with a gun, and then you slammed a giant phone at my head."

It worked. She chuckled. "Ah yes, our first meeting in the corridor, and in my apartment. I forgot to tell you I bought Nate's apartment. If Leverage ever decides to return to Boston, you will have your old office back. That'd be funny – I'd be your landlord then."

The chances for that happening were lousy – but not impossible. Betsy was right when she told him he was happy in Boston. He was. Portland was colored with loss and rain. Maybe now it would be different, when Flo was back in his life.

She didn't wait for his response, thank God. He didn't know what to say anyway. "For that to happen, we have to work on Sterling," she said, "No, _I_ have to work on him. He was there, and I don't want him in our lives again, when this is over. Though I'm starting to like him, which I guess isn't clever. And I think you like him a little, too, just a tiny, tiny little bit-"

"What? No, I don't _like_ Sterling."

She turned her head so she could glance at him. She peeked at his eyes for a second then nodded. "Yes, you do. You maybe hate him, but you also like him – no use denying that."

"That's an utter bullsh-"

"Nah-ah." She raised her finger. "Bitch face."

He huffed laughter and squeezed her tighter; the bitch face transformed into that adorable smile. He could see just one side of her face – they both watched the house - but it was enough. No, hell, it wasn't. He pulled her up and turned her sideways to sit in his lap. He _could_ divide his attention between this smile, and the house, though when she raised her eyes to him, so damn close, the pattern of tiny green spots in her brown eyes was much more interesting than anything else.

"And now…" She wriggled deeper into his hug and made herself comfortable. "… now tell me what else was wrong with the great Dubai fiasco. Sterling was right, you know? You aren't mad at the people who hit you, and drugging your coffee was a pretty benign way to deal with you. There's something more to that. Tell me."

"Nope, there wasn't…" He trailed off and his words ended in silence. Damn tension knotted his muscles again, and just when he was starting to relax, finally, after so long time. She felt that – as her hand caressed his forearm – but she said nothing.

Reset buttons were great thing in theory, but when time came to apply them… it was something completely different. Learning to share, and learning to let someone close weren't overnight successes.

"I was terrified," he said with effort. He waited for her reaction, but none came. He had to continue. "It was in the middle of the climax of the con, everything was in motion. I mentioned before about Kazakhstani terrorists and tournament security. The team was among them, in the middle of trouble. Nate and Sophie were pushing the last steps in the tournament, and Parker was about to start her deadly dangerous vault break in. That was the situation before everything went black. And I woke up in the darkness, with a smashed earbud, locked up. I had no idea what time it was, what was happening, were they all still alive. I broke out and started fighting all of them in line, still not knowing anything about the team, until Hardison showed up out of nowhere. I was so relieved that I _hugged_ him."

He expected a chuckle, or a witty comment, but she just laid her cheek on his shirt and stayed that way.

_There. Wasn't that hard_. With time, he might even learn to do this sharing shit naturally.

A movement among the cars stopped his hands right on time; he was one second away from cupping her face, and he knew how it would end. Two dark blue shapes entered one of the State Police cars and drove away. He followed them with his eyes down the road, until they disappeared after several curves and the road rounded a hill-side.

They could keep an eye on the house for hours here and still have nothing useful or confirmed. He'd already seen everything he could and needed to see, but he didn't want to move and let her go. He needed her pressed against him, her kisses and touch – he needed much more than that. His pulse was already speeding and he only held her close. On the other hand, the quick thought of making out here, that crossed his mind for just one second, filled him with dread. Not that image, but the fact he _did_ think of that, even for one damn second. He couldn't allow himself to slip and be reckless.

"You're messing up my mind," he said. "If I kiss you just one more time, I won't stop, so we better move."

"What's wrong with kissing?" she raised her eyes to him, and there went his observation of the house goodbye. He had to put immense physical effort into tearing his gaze from her lips, and to look back above her head.

"Timing; nothing else. We should go back."

A small, unhappy smile flickered across her face. "I don't want to," she said, but she was already getting up.

He sat for a second more, empty handed, feeling the cool air on his chest where she had been just moments before. He got up, slowly. He silently cursed his damn shoulder and the fact he had to spare his strength as much as he could. If they were really on a camping trip, they wouldn't simply walk back to the car; he would pick her up and carry her.

She belonged in his arms. Yet, when she smiled again, the realization hit him. He didn't need her body against his to keep that warmth in his heart. Her smile was enough.

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"Be reasonable, Spencer. There are three and a half major players in this game: Maddox with his cops, my agents, the Koreans, and only a possibility of your team showing up. Concentrate on Maddox and my agents for now – if you can think of two things at the same time – and accept the fact that Maddox is lost for us as a potential ally. For now. Simply forget him, okay? That leaves my agents. There's no chance that all of them are Korean moles-"

"Because that would make you the best joke in the history of Interpol?"

"-and that means that we have to find out which ones are still loyal. They are trained and capable agents, and with their help we can deal with five Koreans. My agents can take care of-"

"No, they can't. You'll get them killed… again. They are no match against North Korean Special Forces, Sterling, forget it. I know that messes with your superiority complex, but control it."

"Maybe not one on one, but they will be a crucial back up for your ass. Oh, maybe I'm getting this all off – maybe your people aren't allowed to have women covering your asses?"

Florence had had enough of this.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Her voice rose higher than she wanted. "You can't have a conversation without constant snarling?"

Two confused stares turned to her. They knelt by the car, each of them holding a branch they used to add details on the large square carved in the ground.

Then she got it. This was their normal interaction, and they felt comfortable exchanging snarls which would chase away every normal person. They didn't even notice how it sounded to someone wasn't used to them.

"Ah, forget it," she muttered, and jumped from the hood where she was sitting to watch them. "I'll go curl up in the car and rest a little. Call me when you're done."

She closed the door behind her and lay on the back seat. She had only fifteen minutes of sleep in their shelter, and the moment her head touched the seat her eyelids fell.

"_So, what we need is proof – we have to make contact with my agents and see which one is still loyal_..."

"_You mean, I have to make contact, right?"_

"_It wasn't a problem for you to climb up through her window while the entire state searched around the house-_

"_It was night!"_

"_Now you'll have fog to cover your-_

She covered her head with her jacket, and drifted away with the sound of their voices quietly arguing.

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This time, he had to leave Florence with Sterling, and his nerves vibrated like hyperactive hummingbirds on PCP.

Denise and other potential moles were with Sterling for months. She was part of his search team for Nate, and that meant she knew the Leverage team inside out. Eliot wasn't worried about everything she knew about him, his worry was only because she knew how capable his team was. A trap prepared for Nate Ford – and he was sure Sterling filled their heads with Nate's perceptiveness – had to be invisible and deadly.

No way they would simply put all five Koreans around the house with orders to sit and wait. Nate would notice them immediately. They could've put them in cop's, paramedic's or firefighter's uniform, and he would still know something was off about them.

The Koreans definitely weren't anywhere near, and that was a good thing for now. It would be a major nuisance later, when time came to deal with them, when their location would be a priority.

Now, he had to think about how to enter a house full of agents and police, how to choose one agent and bring her to Sterling. Piece of cake.

The intensity of his pissitivity would surge through the ceiling if he was already inside the house, and not just trudging through the muddy thicket outside, trying to find a good spot to get as close as he could without being spotted.

The fog was denser down here. Not a single breeze touched the layers that hung from the trees like curtains.

He calmed his fretting nerves. Mistakes weren't allowed now, and no matter how he feared for Florence being left alone with Sterling, he couldn't let it speed him up.

No one in the front yard. He came closer to the garden.

No one looking out through the windows. He crossed the back yard to the shed he used the last time to climb up to the upper floor, and stopped.

Not a living soul in the forests surrounding the house.

Voices and TV from inside the house covered up the screeching of old wood. The shed held his weight, again, with no problem. Only this time he wasn't just breathless because of running, with bruises from the rubber bullets. Now he was beaten and exhausted, and reaching up to the roof and pulling himself up for a moment was almost impossible for his left shoulder. The damn joint should've been in a sling, kept immobile, and certainly not used to hold his entire weight. He gritted his teeth, ignored the shooting pain, and pulled himself onto the roof. He shimmied three meters sideways, on the edge, until he reached the window.

His luck held out. Nobody was taking a nap in the bedroom, and the window was slightly ajar, as he had left it the night before.

All he had to do now was to wait for a chance to grab someone, and to think about the logistic nightmare that would follow.

First ten minutes he spent sat comfortably on the bed, resting and taking inventory of his injuries. The bruises weren't better, but his shoulder had lowered from sharp stabbings with every single move to just a dull throbbing. Mobility was something completely different. He had, maybe, one third of his usual strength in that arm, and he could barely lift it to his head.

The second ten minutes he spent walking to and fro, and he checked the bathroom. When the lavender and eucalyptus stench hit him, he quickly retreated.

The following ten minutes were full of hellish paranoia about all the things that could go wrong with Flo and Sterling being alone, unprotected, while he was stuck in here. He was never good at waiting.

Luckily, he heard the steps on the stairway right as he started to think about a diversion that would stir the people downstairs and cause them to scatter. He stood behind the door and waited for the steps to come closer.

"Yes Sir, I understand. We'll keep you informed." A female voice said. She held the phone and paid no attention to the room, passing by him inside. "Of course. Talk to you later." She put the phone down and sighed.

The black agent, the same one who claimed she had shot him two times. Sterling called her Amanda.

"Hello sweetheart," he said, and closed the door.

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	13. Chapter 13

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 13

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"Hello, sweetheart."

Huge black eyes widened in fear.

"You're Amanda, right?" Eliot said. "Nice to meet you. Though, as I heard, we've already met."

She broke through her shock and jumped away, opening her mouth to scream; her hand groped her jacket and the holster on her belt. He closed the distance in one step and covered her mouth, blocking her hand.

"No screamin'," he breathed in her ear. "I only want to talk to you."

He waited until she slowly nodded, then removed his hand. He knew what to expect next, and he was prepared, but her explosion almost surprised him.

She didn't waste her breath on screaming. This one was a fighter. She went for his throat, and he retreated, evading her hits.

He directed his retreat from the door to the bed, studying her speed and coordination, making mental notes for Sterling. If that fool really thought his agents could deal with the Koreans, and if he pushed them into the fight, they would have a massacre on their hands. It wasn't that she didn't know how to fight – but her moves were standard technique. Well trained, yet predictable.

His annoyance at her, Sterling, himself, _everything_, mixed with the grin. She was gorgeous. Esthetically, he was in heaven. He even forgave her two nasty jabs towards his stomach and jaw.

But this wasn't the time to enjoy the view. He carefully feinted and ducked, and when she surged forward to hit him he slid a step sideways and used her own force to throw her on the bed, so as to ease her fall. The next second, her own handcuffs bound both her hands. He pressed a pillow into her face to muffle her cries, searching for something to wrap around her mouth; his annoyance returned in full force. If she were a man, he would simply knock her out. He would do that if she were a real threat, if he'd had to fight her. It would make it easier to take her away.

"If you don't stop, I'll kill you," he said. That calmed her down long enough to remove the pillow and tie her mouth with a towel.

Even only thinking about his gruesome return route down the roof, this time with a woman over his shoulder, softened his knees. He would need a good arm to hold and grip while climbing down, and that meant he had to heave her over the dislocated shoulder. Other way around would be too dangerous.

He cursed under his breath, picked her up, and went to the window.

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Nate took the wheel when their van stopped for the third time, and when Parker's impatience escaped in the form of murderous glares aimed towards the traffic cops and crowd enjoying the fair. He sent her to help Hardison. Sophie followed his cue and gave her a laptop on which she monitored TV channels and live reports from the fair, and ongoing chase.

"Just keep it loud enough so we can hear it," the grifter said with a reassuring smile. Nate watched them all in the rear-view-mirror while he waited for his line to move again, but he didn't need to see that smile to know how false it was. He heard the difference quite clearly.

Sophie joined him in the front; behind them, folk music from the laptop mixed with the same music coming from all around them.

"I asked Hardison a few moments ago if he had posted info about Denise Clayton on Kim Leske's Facebook page, for Eliot to see it," she said. "He said he didn't, and that he won't. What am I missing?"

"We can't risk it," he said. "Eliot's message was clear: Stop carrying out your intentions, and wait for my signal. He doesn't know we are here; our only 'intention' was on that Facebook page, when Hardison liked his message as Jonas Kang. We have to presume he was talking about that. It's logical that the page is being monitored. We won't post anything until he sends us a signal."

"What?" Her voice rose; she glanced at the back of the van and lowered it again. "That woman said he'd been shot two times! What if he can't send any signal? We should send a message that we're nearby."

"Sophie, his job is to stay alive, and he'll do it no matter whether we're here or in Portland. The only people who would benefit from knowing our whereabouts are those who are after him. I have no intentions of adding to their advantage."

She opened her mouth, but he interrupted her before she said anything. "It sounds cold, I know. But think logically. Our info about Denise Clayton isn't crucial for him now. He maybe knows about her, already. If he doesn't, it won't be important because we are heading to her now. The same thing goes for any of those Korean generals – knowing which one orchestrated this play won't help him escape or survive."

"So, he is doing the hitter's job, and we are doing our usual jobs too?" She raised her eyebrows at him and he waited for the rest. "And what about Florence? That agent said nothing about her. Their version is that Sterling escaped with Eliot after shooting his own agent, and they took Florence as a hostage. And since then nobody has mentioned either of them. I don't like it, Nate."

"Me neither, but that silence might mean good news about her. Maybe he managed to hide her in some place safe."

"And that 'safe place' is what troubles me the most. He is out there somewhere, injured and being chased, and…" She took a deep breath and steadied her voice. "We can extract him from any trouble, hospital or jail – but we can't help him when he is God-only-knows-where, out there in that wilderness. We can't _find_ him. Part of me really hopes they catch him for us."

He huffed out a laugh, though he didn't feel like laughing. "You mean, let the Police and Interpol do our job for us, and deliver him into our hands? Not a bad plan. And when we mentioned delivery… I've been thinking about that since he let us know about the North Korean involvement." He turned backwards. "Parker, lower the music!"

The traffic finally moved at the same time Parker cut the music off. He maneuvered the van into a smaller street, leaving the crowd behind, and only then he said, "Delivery problems can tell us which of the three generals you've found, Hardison, is behind all this. We aren't dealing with an arrest, and the usual prisoner transport. We have North Korean agents who can't risk overly exposing themselves. Let's imagine, for a minute, that they had caught him immediately. Do you have any idea how impossible it is to transport their prey across to North Korea? Even leaving the USA borders would be impossible; we aren't talking about a package, but a living, breathing man. Security protocols at all airports are on the highest levels since right after the World Trade Center massacre."

"A shipping container?" Hardison offered.

"Not likely. It would take too much time. If they are clever, they would try to spend as little time near him as they possibly can."

"Damn right," Hardison said. "Having Eliot Spencer trapped in a cage on a long sailing would be as lethal as flying into outer space with an Alien aboard. Sooner or later, he will break free and carnage would ensue."

"And that brings us another possibility," Nate said. "Check the generals, and see if any of them has left the country. If you're willing to give half a million for him, you'd be more than ready to come here and collect him in person."

"We should've set a bounty on Eliot's head a long time ago," Parker said. "Five million. All the potential problems would have been solved. If we'd done that, we would have had an army of people willing to get him from the Koreans, and bring him back to us."

"He would be just thrilled to hear that coming from you," Hardison said. He flashed a smile at the thief. "And I can make a dog-tag: If found, return me to this address, and collect five million dollars for your trouble."

Nate said nothing more. It was better that this conversation ended on a lighter note than it had started upon, though he knew they were all counting the time. They were deep into the afternoon, and had no means to find out when Eliot's shooting took place.

All their answers lay inside the Interpol HQ. He set a GPS, and after taking a few more small streets, they finally left Brattleboro behind them.

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Florence found waiting almost impossible for her already fretting nerves. If only it had been nighttime, and not midafternoon, the darkness would have helped Eliot with his breaking-in. She glanced around at the surrounding forest trying to decipher how much daylight they had left. Not long; it would transpire. The evening would be here very soon, and the fog was already much darker than an hour ago, as the sun behind it sank lower.

"Well, well, he made it," Sterling said when Eliot showed up on the muddy path they'd chosen to park their car on. A woman in a dark grey suit hung over his shoulder. At least she wasn't in a skirt, Florence thought, noticing how Eliot's hand held her across her impossibly long legs.

"You two confuse her and try to pull out something useful. I'll wait in the car and show myself when I see a point worth pressing," Sterling said.

"What? Are you crazy? I can't grift. I tried, and it was pathetic. And Eliot doesn't know what to-"

"Then try some of your babbling nonsense, and then let Spencer take over. He'll know what to do. I'll study her and see if she's telling the truth."

"What babbling nonsense? Sterling, you better watch-" But he closed the car door after himself, and her words ended with a grumble.

Eliot was already there, and he raised his eyebrows at Sterling's retreat. She rolled her eyes and shrugged. It wasn't a signal that would tell him anything useful, but she had nothing else. He lowered the woman onto her feet and turned her towards the car.

Agh, Halle Berry would hide in shame before this perfect example of beauty. How the hell Sterling managed to collect so many gorgeous agents? Eliot took off her handcuffs, and a grin escaped him – a genuine, broad smile.

Florence let her grumble grow, and crossed her arms. "Amanda, right?"

"Where is Jim Sterling?" The agent's gaze swiveled across the clearance, but swept across the car not stopping at it.

"We got rid of him. Why?"

"Good. You two look reasonable enough. I know you're both aware of the hopeless situation you are in. Let's talk about all the ways to solve this positively."

"First, tell me why did you say you'd shot Eliot. Was that Denise's idea, or some of the Koreans?"

"Who?"

And that was it, her inspiration stopped like a flat tire. She darted a desperate glare at Eliot, but Sterling was wrong; he didn't seem to realize it was time for him to jump in and take over. He stood within arm's reach from Amanda to stop her if she suddenly moved, but at least his grin subsided.

"Don't play stupid with me." Florence hardened her voice to hide her frantic thinking. "Talk."

"About what?"

"About the Koreans. Which agent did they approach first?"

"I have no idea-"

Florence nodded to Eliot. "I've told you so. She is useless. Take her away and kill her."

The dark eyes glazed with fear. "What? You can't… I don't know anything about any Koreans! You're insane!"

"Then explain why you said you shot him."

"Because the police was stuck, the car he took from the lake disappeared…." She stopped talking and looked at the police car, and Florence could almost see her wheels turning. "We decided to go with Sterling's plan. If we managed to lure his team here, they would have been a solid trail to him at least. Or means for blackmail."

"We? Who we?"

"Agents. Denise took over."

And again, she had nothing to say, and Eliot continued to listen with interest, not paying attention to her glances. Florence forced herself not to look at the car with Sterling inside it. What the hell did he say? He would show himself when he saw a point worth pressing. She frowned, trying to look as if in deep thought, and not speechless. Both Sterling and Eliot needed to see if Amanda was lying – she couldn't tell, even if her life depended on it – and confused and shocked people didn't overly concentrate on lying. She would reveal something useful for them.

"We killed Sterling," she said calmly. "He served no purpose anymore. Denise controlled him, even when they were separated, and we couldn't trust him."

A stupefied glance was Amanda's reply.

Florence lowered her voice into a conspirational whisper. "He is my ex-husband," she said. "And Denise's mother-in-law is Korean. It's complicated."

Eliot bit his lip. She tried not to look at him, only at the agent in stupor.

"That's why I need to know everything that the Koreans had told you. Tell me why you work for them, what were their orders, and who else is in cahoots with them."

"For the last time, I know nothing about any Koreans, you crazy bitch!" Amanda's cry sounded genuine; no one could act with such complete bewilderment.

"And she really doesn't know," Sterling's voice from the car said. "She isn't a mole."

A surge of hatred suppressed Amanda's fear. "You," the agent breathed. "I'm so sorry Denise missed."

"Oh, she didn't miss me. She did hit me – right after she killed Min-Jung." Sterling came closer and nodded to Eliot. "I'll explain everything to her. But we need another one. Can you…"

"Nope. She will break both of you in half if I leave."

And she surely looked like she was eager to try. Florence took a step back, but Sterling didn't look worried. He tapped his chin, thinking. "Come with me," he said finally. "I'll tell you everything that happened, and why."

He took Amanda a few steps aside.

Florence listened to his explanation in the beginning, though mostly to see if he would divert the truth where it helped him, but instead he went with a quick, chronological line of events. Amanda's posture changed as she listened.

Eliot relaxed; only then did Florence know Amanda believed Sterling. And why wouldn't she? There was no point in grabbing her and bringing her here, if they really were killers on the run. Sterling's return here was enough proof for his words.

"Check the phone," Eliot said to her when the pair were engaged deep in conversation.

Why, she wanted to ask, but instead pulled the phone from her pocket. Its battery was on the last reserves.

"Amanda," Eliot called. "Are you monitoring Kim Leske's Facebook page for clues?"

The agent darted a careful glance at Sterling. "Tell him everything he wants to know," Sterling said. "We're working together now."

"We weren't checking it," Amanda said. "There was no point after it led us to this house. It couldn't give us anything new about your whereabouts."

Eliot merely nodded in response, and turned his back to the agents. "I'll go and bring Megan and Merlin back," he said quietly. "I won't risk the Koreans stumbling upon them."

Florence cleared her throat. "The Koreans who aren't here, but who will be soon, because you are starting the showdown?" She tried to sound calm, but she couldn't tell how her voice sounded. According to the softening of his eyes, it was pretty scared.

"Step by step," he said. "I'll only be gone for a few minutes, don't worry. Use the phone. Post a message to Nate. Tell him that everything is all right here, no need to come or do anything. If they saw Amanda's statement about shooting…"

"Yeah, I know." She looked at the agents. Sterling was in the middle of explaining about their trek through the night, and all their encounters with the Koreans. "What should I say?"

"Nothing clear – but Nate will know what you meant."

He left after that, waving to Sterling and pointing at the forest. She listened to the agents with half an ear, pondering upon the message. Finally, she took a picture of the fog engulfing the trees, and posted it. "_Aunt Stacey, this hung around us all night. Morning was much better, though, after this shit cleared out. We expect fine weather by evening. No damage to the house. I'll call you as soon as we arrive back to civilization again, so we can continue with our plans to meet up. For now, everything stays as we arranged, nothing's changed_." It was Wednesday. The team bought them a few more days for their vacation, and if she recalled correctly, Eliot said he wasn't needed in Washington for the job before Sunday. "_See you Sunday_."

By the time she finished typing, Sterling and Amanda had finished their chat.

Sterling didn't need to see the post to know what she had sent. "You know, if Nate decided he is needed here, that won't stop him," he said. She almost agreed with him.

"And what if team Leverage really shows up?" Amanda said. "You said Denise wants it to happen, to lure or blackmail Spencer. We have to find out exactly what she has planned."

"I don't think she is planning anything here," Sterling said. "She isn't the mastermind behind this, only a tool in their arsenal: A coordinator of sorts. One of the Koreans is the team leader; he is in charge of all this."

The phone in Florence's hand let out a small beep, and died.

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Eliot returned with Megan and Merlin after a couple of minutes, and the new agent on the scene, who confirmed their kidnappers were legit, dealt with any remaining suspicion they might've had. Eliot gave them their jackets, and even their guns, back and told them they would be a part of the dangerous showdown. It was enough to keep them thrilled, scared as shit, and silent.

Sterling was sitting on the back seat of the police car, with the door open. He took off the hat, but he buttoned his jacket up to his throat. Florence had to admit his strength. Though he looked like he was on his last remaining reserves, his eyes were still wide-awake and sharp. A new respect rose inside her heart while she watched his efforts to keep it together, to make it through to the end.

She came closer and gave him a bottle of water. His hands shook badly while he drank.

"Are you hungry?" she asked gently, taking the bottle back. A quick smile escaped him; she grinned at him in return.

"By the way, Chloe never believed you shot Min-Jung," Amanda said. Sterling only nodded to that, but Florence saw the relief in his eyes. He relaxed a bit.

For such a self-sufficient bastard, he surely did highly value that statement. Florence put the bottle back in her backpack. "How many agents in total are there inside the house?" she asked. They weren't all gathered while she was there with them.

"Denise, Chloe and Amanda, and three more. Kindra, Lisa, and Sherrel. Amanda will talk with Chloe, and they will both work on the rest of them."

"And you trust them to draw the truth out of those three, at the same time not showing anything before Denise?" Eliot asked. Both cops followed him in line. Florence suppressed a smile at the way they shuffled close to him, choosing him as the leader of the group.

"Yes, I do. That's their job, and they are excellent agents. We will know in a minute if there's another mole besides Denise. And if there isn't, the tables will be turned. The Koreans will no longer have the advantage."

Eliot leant on the hood of the car; they all stood just a few steps away. "Look…" He took a deep breath, and slowly let it out. "People, you're dealing with North Korean Special Forces. They were unarmed while trying to catch me so as not to damage their prey. By now, they've learned their lesson. They'll probably be armed now. Even if they ain't, the advantage is still on their side. You're not good enough, any of you. If you forget that, you'll end up dead."

Amanda nodded, but the two youngsters smirked. Florence studied the darkening of Eliot's face, and regretted she backed up Sterling's decision to bring them along.

"With that phone dead, we have no means of verbally communicating," Amanda said. "Instead, to let you know if our talk with the other agents went well, I'll open the window on the bedroom. Florence, you will turn on your own phone then, the one we tracked. After that, we can coordinate the action."

"Denise has to call the remaining Koreans here," Eliot said. "All of them. There was ten total. I've dealt with five of them. I need you to check their whereabouts. Everyone injured in last night's chase would've been transferred to Brattleboro hospital. There are a few cops, and the Koreans were probably admitted as locals. Locate them, each and every of them."

"Why didn't you kill them when you had the chance, instead of risking them coming back into play?" Sterling asked.

Eliot looked at him. Then he turned back to Amanda, and said, "All of them have at least one bone broken. The cops don't. You are legit, you can ask Maddox to put guards around them; tell him what you think you need – but not too much. Those first five have to be accounted for, before we deal with the remaining five."

"We can't wait for that," Sterling said. "I can – more time means a better chance for Nate to show up, but you can't, if you want to destroy this trap for them. And even I don't have any use of Nate dead, so we have to hurry."

"Wait," Florence said. "What if Denise already noticed that Amanda is missing?"

"They would've called me to see where I am," Amanda said. "But I went upstairs to take a nap. We decided to sleep in turns. They wouldn't have checked on me in these last fifteen minutes."

Sterling turned on the seat, getting up slowly, and put his foot on the square Eliot and he had drawn on the ground by the car. "This is the house." He drew a line in the dirt and pushed one dry leave on the end of it with his shoe. "This is our current position. It isn't enough if Denise only calls the Koreans to tell them that Florence's phone has been located somewhere nearby. We need them to come directly _here_."

"Why?" Eliot's word sounded harsh, and Florence raised her eyes to him. He watched Sterling with narrowed eyes. Her own suspicion, sleepy with this _togetherness_, awoke again, reminding her how fragile this truce really was.

"If you want to run after them up and down through the woods, be my guest. But having them here means we can set up the trap with armed agents, in one place. Not even super special ninjas won't risk anything if they are held at aim they didn't expect."

"I see," Eliot smiled. "Good plan A." He looked at her then, just a brief glance, still smiling. _Plan A_? The plan that was never executed, no matter how well things were going. She knew how many plans Nate had to make for every action, and plan A was just the groundwork with which to work on.

But Sterling knew that too, because he smirked. "If this shit gets past that, you are the one who will lead it from there, Spencer. Fighting is your field of expertize – you will decide the rest of it."

Eliot said nothing, just watched him. Florence shifted uncomfortably as the tension rose, but after a few seconds, both of them smiled.

That was more disturbing than any open fighting and yelling, and her fear sank deeper, taking root.

"Okay, if that's it, I'm going back," Amanda said. Her voice wasn't steady either. "Wait for the window opening and then-"

"And then, Florence will post one more picture with her phone," Sterling added. "Picture of this, from here." He pointed down the hill, to the house below them. "That will show them all where we are, exactly. Denise will think Florence is sending her position to Nate and the team, and she will unleash the trap. Wait until Denise contacts the remaining five Koreans, and then take her down and lock her up. Send two armed agents back to us, and wait."

"Yes, Sir." Amanda nodded and hurried away into the fog, climbing down.

"Two armed cops, and two armed agents," Sterling added after a few moments. "That will be enough for any opponent who doesn't expect them here." He turned around with a sway, and staggered a step toward the car. He carefully lowered himself onto the back seat, with his teeth gritted, and rested his head on the backrest.

Florence wondered whether he was trying to convince Eliot, or himself. A clicking sound from her left caught her attention. Megan and Merlin loaded their spare magazines into their guns, with hard faces, hard eyes.

The fog had thickened, and a new layer of darkness fell on everything, dulling the colors with its grey hue.

Eliot's eyes, while he watched the youngsters, reflected the shadows around them, veiled and dark.

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Nate found a good spot on the hill facing the one where Eliot's house was. They were level with the house, but far enough away so as not to be noticed. He parked the van directly on the road. There were no other houses near, and the road seemed to be mostly abandoned. Any traffic there would be highly unlikely.

He walked to the end of the slope and looked at the house through the trees.

"Such a shame," Sophie whispered beside him. "They've waited for so long for those few days. A beautiful, homely cottage. Perfect."

He shared her thoughts, but he was more occupied with the cars in the front yard, than with the scenic beauty of Eliot's refuge. A huge tactical vehicle dominated the small garden. It was too far away to see anything on it, but he knew it was Interpol's.

"I've finished the search about the three generals," Hardison said. He joined them and peeked out at the house. "You were right. One of them took medical leave, and he hasn't been seen or heard from since two days ago."

"Timing is weird. It's Wednesday. Eliot traveled to Boston Monday morning, picked up Florence from the convention on Monday afternoon. That would have been the first confirmation for Denise and the Koreans that their trap had caught something. They must've contacted the general immediately and assured him they would catch Eliot. Pretty risky… especially when we know how he evaded them, without even knowing they were after him. If the general started right then, he might've been here by now."

"He isn't," Hardison said. "A North Korean general can't simply fly into the US. However, a South Korean middle-aged tourist can. He was cautious, though. He is in Canada. I've located him. He is nearby and waiting."

"And that brings us more logistical problems. Transporting Eliot across the border to him."

"If he is alive," Sophie said quietly.

Even Hardison had nothing comforting to say about that. Nate didn't even try to come up with something to assuage her fears.

"Oh, he is very much alive," Parker said out of nowhere. "That black Interpol agent who said she'd shot Eliot just passed across a clearance in the woods, turned upside down."

They all turned to the thief; she stood ten feet to the right from them, at the edge of the forest with binoculars held up to her eyes. "She is hanging over someone's shoulder," the thief continued. "A very distinctive shoulder."

Hardison left the laptop on the wet grass and jumped back into the van; he opened a bag and pulled the other binoculars out.

"See? I told you we'd need them!" he grinned, giving one set to each of them.

Nate followed Eliot uphill: the hitter kept disappearing in the fog and woods, and his progress was slow.

Sophie adjusted her vision. "He doesn't move like he's been shot twice."

"Nope," Hardison said. "Though I can translate that walk of his: _I hate everything and everybody, and you better move out of my way_."

Nate lowered his binoculars and looked at all three of them, side by side, staring at the hill. They had front row tickets.

He let out a smile, and put his binoculars back on his eyes.

It took a few seconds before he located Eliot again. His pace was a little slower. When the hitter stopped, much higher uphill, all of them could see more shapes around him, and something lighter. Probably a car.

"Whatever he is doing, it seems it's going fine," Sophie said. "There was a glimpse of something golden, so Florence is there as well. What now, Nate?"

"We'll enjoy the view," he said. "And see what we can do while he is dealing with the house full of agents. We still have a delivery problem to think about. Transporting Eliot to Canada might…" he trailed off and smirked.

All of them turned to him; Parker with her binoculars still on her eyes. He waved to them to continue watching, and they turned in a wave.

"I think I know how they planned it," he said. "We had all the info, we just didn't connect it. Jonas Kang. Age twenty-eight, works in Boston City Hospital. You put him into _Aeronautics of the world unite_ Facebook group, Hardison. And if we add 'something about the flying' with a word hospital, what connection comes to your minds? The only one possible?"

"Medical evacuation chopper," Hardison said. "The perfect way to transport a person probably injured in their kidnap attempt – in a medical helicopter, without any suspicion."

Nate nodded, though they couldn't see him, they remained watching the hill. "But it will be a private one," he said. "A private Medevac chopper. The FAA doesn't require flight plans or passenger manifests for medevac choppers. He can land on any heliport he wants, no questions asked. Find me the nearest heliports, Hardison."

The hacker returned to his laptop. Nate turned his binoculars to the house again, and studied the tactical vehicle for a few moments. He made a mental note to keep Hardison busy, or they would face a lot of implementations on Lucille when they got back home. This thing was huge, and it looked armored.

"Putney, the nearest private heliport," Hardison said after twenty seconds. "Only a short drive from here. It's also in the middle of the woods. Everything in this god forsaken State is in the middle of the woods." A familiar ping of an incoming notification ended his sentence. "And we have a new post on Kim Leske's Facebook page. Eliot or Florence sent a foggy and woody pic. Typical, what else could they send from here? "_Aunt Stacey, this hung around us all night. Morning was much better, though, after this shit cleared out. We expect fine weather by evening. No damage to the house. I'll call you as soon as we arrive back to civilization again, so we can continue with our plans to meet up. For now, everything stays as we arranged, nothing's changed_._ See you Sunday_."

"And there's the signal we've been waiting for," Nate said. "Pack your bags, Hardison."

"We're leaving?" Sophie turned to him; her lenses looked directly at his left eye.

"You heard the message. Whatever he is doing, he's got it under control. We are going onto the next stage in this, and this time we might get a step in front of him. We'll take a look at that heliport and see if dear Jonas has made his preparations."

"What do you want me to do with our general?" Hardison asked.

Nate took one last look at the group of shades within the forest. "You know the place he's staying?"

"Yep. A small hotel near Niagara Falls. His alias checked in there last night."

"Excellent." He threw his binoculars to the hacker; Sophie and Parker followed his example. "We will give him the time of his life."

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Paranoia was surely a great thing in his line of work, but Eliot didn't need the tension headache that it brought along with it. Much less did he need the feeling of everything slipping through his fingers; too fast, too shady. He had no time to _think_.

When Nate sped up in the middle of the action, he could always follow him, no matter how sudden the twists and turns he made. But he never had to question Nate's motives. Nate's spiraling into crazy mode had only a few familiar triggers, and Eliot could track them all and adjust the danger according to whatever level Nate had been on.

Sterling's brain worked the same speed as Nate's. And that was it, no other similarities. No trust. Nothing familiar. He was treading uncharted territory.

This fucking mess of an action looked benign and logical enough. They had to deal with the Koreans as soon as possible, under their conditions. The agents at the house would deal with Denise, and the two of them here with four guns as backup, _could_ deal with five Koreans.

But Sterling knew that he wanted to collect them all, to stop any information about Florence spreading to his other enemies, and Eliot had a very troubling thought that Sterling had directed this, using exactly that motivation.

His expectation of everything going wrong, this time wasn't nearly enough to prevent it.

He used Sterling being occupied with Megan and Merlin who bombarded the agent with questions, and went to Florence. Advancing fog wrapped around her; only five more steps deeper in the mist, and he wouldn't be able to see her. She watched the house below them, waiting for Amanda's signal using the window. He hoped that the fog wouldn't completely disable that signal, but when he stood beside her, he could see the window.

Florence was yet another reason for his worry to ignite into the real fear.

It took only one look at him for her face to lose its smile. "What's wrong?" she asked.

_Only everything_. Yet, he didn't want to add to her worries. "I'll make a slight change to the plan, after Amanda signals about your phone, and you put the picture of the house online."

"Will you contact Maddox, perhaps? I was thinking about it. It didn't take so long to explain everything to Amanda. Maybe if Sterling talks to the cop, he might finish this with a huge police presence, instead of this, this… risky thing."

So, he wasn't the only one who felt this was too rushed. He reached to her face with a finger and drew the corner of her mouth up, into a half smile. He was awarded with a genuine one in return; her face brightened.

"Sterling might be convincing, you're right," he said. "But you're forgetting one thing. Maddox is dangerous for me, in the same way the Koreans are. I am a wanted criminal; there's no negotiating with a cop about that. I might have a better chance with the Koreans. It's better that Maddox is out of the equation for now." He kept his palm on her face while talking, and he didn't have to force his smile. The touch of her skin did miracles to his stress levels; if Betsy knew that six months ago, and prescribed _this_, he wouldn't have fought her prescriptions.

"But Sterling's plan is simply you fighting all five Koreans, with him, two agents, and two cops huddled safely around the car!"

"Shhhh, don't freak out." Damn, she was simply dazzling when her eyes shone with this heartfelt fire. He pulled his hand back; kissing her now was too tempting. "Do you really think it would work the other way round? Besides, I've told you I have a slight change to the plan."

She glanced aside and downhill toward the house, and frowned. "Amanda opened the window. The agents are all ours." She took out her phone and turned it on. "Move away, I have to take a picture. I can put you posing and waving, though, that would gather all the Koreans much faster."

He stepped aside while she searched for the best angle, one that would show the Koreans their exact position, the place from which the picture was taken; he watched her concentrated frown with a smile.

She posted the picture on Leske's page, and raised wide open, worried eyes to him. "Done," she whispered. "Now we wait."

He pulled her into his arms then; she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned closer. They watched the house in silence. Just then he became aware, when quiet voices behind them ceased, how the fog compressed everything around them into grey murkiness. The woods around them were silent, too. No birds, no breeze to shuffle through the leaves, laden heavy with drops.

The strange tingling raised the hair on his neck.

"Somebody is watching us," he whispered leaning closer. She froze. "Maybe," he quickly added. "Or maybe Sterling is just glaring at us."

"Why don't we just climb down and steal their car, and run away?" she whispered. "You don't have to finish all those guys, you only have to evade them. Now is our chance."

Yeah, they could have. But not now when they've set everything in motion – and not now, when he had a chance to clear her name of the danger. If even one escaped, she would be a marked target, forever. "I can't. Nate and the team might still fall into this trap and-"

She wriggled out of his embrace and raised her hand with the phone; this time, her frown was annoyed. "Don't feed me that bullshit, Eliot Spencer," she said. "Yo, Nate: house – Koreans – trap – don't come – and change your number so they can't track this one. Simple enough, huh? I thought the times when I had to tell you that you're full of crap at least twice a day was long ago, and behind us."

"Uhm, well…"

The phone rang in her hand and she almost dropped it. _Saved by the bell_.

"It's Amanda," she said and put her on the speakerphone, waving for Sterling to come.

"I've sent Kindra and Sherrel to you," Amanda said. "Chloe is right now hyper excited about Spencer contacting his team via the Facebook page; she pushed the laptop to Denise to monitor it while she goes through all the other search results. Denise took one look and said she will start in a minute; she went upstairs with her phone. The moment she returns, we will take her down."

"Good job," Sterling said. "Now, it all depends on how close the Koreans are. Take Denise's phone and go through her contacts, gather all the info you can."

"Yes, Sir," Amanda said and cut the call.

"Megan and Merlin wanted to contact Maddox," Sterling said. "I've told them we can't contact anybody, because the Koreans might catch snippets of their conversation and slip away. So you know what to tell them if they ask you again."

Eliot watched Sterling's light smile, and his unease grew. It was too innocent, too normal.

He couldn't trust him – but he could lessen any potential damage.

"I have a change to the plan." He waved to the two cops for them to come closer. "You two, I have a special mission for you. Somebody has to secure the house with the Interpol agents, so they can do their jobs. Can you do it? It might be dangerous."

Both Florence and Sterling raised their eyebrows, but Megan and Merlin grinned.

"Yes, Sir, yes we can! When?"

"Now. The Koreans are maybe already keeping an eye on the house, so be careful." He turned to Florence and Sterling. "We will manage with only the two agents that are coming out to help us, don't you think?"

Florence smiled. And Sterling… he watched him with narrowed eyes, clearly tasting a few possible answers. In the end, he settled on, "Of course, Spencer. I won't have to worry about my agents that way." His somewhat twisted smile showed the effort it took to say that.

_And now, the nasty part_. "Florence, you will go with them," he said. He almost added that he needed her to monitor the agents, but managed to stop that on time. "Remember when I told you there would be a time when you have to first do what I tell you, and then ask why? Now it's that time. I have to have a clear playground. You, out here, in the middle will be too distracting."

He almost squinted, watching the set of contradicting emotions running across her face; seconds passed until she cleared her throat.

"Yes, Sir," she said softly.

_Now_ he squinted. Sterling grinned, damn that bastard.

"Okay that's it. Now go, we have no time to waste. Stay in the house, and stay safe."

She did turn around to send him a smile; soft, telling him she understood, and that he was right – but damn, it hurt watching her go.

It would hurt much more if she were here, with five hunters gathering around their prey. He had to go towards them, and leaving her behind with someone else would be un-survivable.

He stood, still as a statue until the trio appeared from the fog in the garden of their home, and entered the house – only then did he relax and face the woods around him.

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Kindra and Sherrel arrived a minute after Florence and both cops disappeared into the house. Eliot knew now why Sterling surrounded himself with beautiful women – every criminal would be stunned at first sight by them. He didn't even have time for looking at them, much less enjoying that vision. He told them to button up their suits and hide their white collars, and then sent them together to the edge of the tree line.

"Shoot without warning," he said, and received two perplexed looks. "Forget about fair play, take them down. Shoot at their legs if you have to, but don't let them come anywhere near you, or you'll be swiftly disarmed, and more than likely killed. Cover each other's back."

"Do as he said," Sterling said. He was checking the gun they'd brought him, along with a pair of handcuffs and his badge, all while he remained seated in the car. Eliot had the handcuffs he took from the cops. This time he planned to use them on his fallen opponents, to keep them down.

"Sterling, you keep that door open; you'll be the bait. Now watch." He drew an X in the middle of a square on the ground. "You're here, and this is the end of this road and clearance around us." He put two dots on the edge of it. "Kindra and Sherrel are here, together." They nodded. After that, he drew his finger in a semi-circle around the square. "The Koreans will come in a line formation. Five of them means two up front, with three behind them, wide spread. They'll exchange their positions while advancing, but this is the main formation. I'll let you deal with the two in front, but I'll go to intercept them and take down at least one or two on their wings and behind."

They all nodded again. Nothing more to say.

He waited at the edge of the fog until Kindra and Sherrel took up their positions. Unless somebody stumbled directly into them, they were invisible in the dark green and grey layers.

Using that time, he took stock, for who knew how many times since this all started. This time, it all came down to one thing: his left shoulder was unreliable. His overall condition wasn't bad. He'd slept and rested, and though all his bruises still hurt like hell, they weren't slowing him down or restricting his moves.

After that, he simply went away.

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Their names were Amanda, Chloe and Lisa, Florence reminded herself while watching the agents working on their laptops and computers. Megan and Merlin took up their stance by the windows looking out at the garden.

This reminded her painfully of the Leverage team. Busy, professional, concentrated. But they lacked Parker's weirdness, Hardison's broad grin, and Sophie's thrilling voice. Most of all, they didn't have Nate. Sterling might've been smart enough, but he didn't have Nate's dark brilliance.

And then, watching this team, she realized what the reason for Sterling's relief was when he had heard that Chloe never believed he'd shot Min-Jung. He wanted what Nate had; a group working as one, loyal and bonded, to be only his. In spite of all her worry, she had to smile at that thought. Plain jealousy. Sterling envied Nate, somewhere deep, deep down in his mind. He would never be able to admit that to himself, but she knew now.

And she understood him just a little bit more. Unfortunately, she also liked him more because of that. Liking Sterling was dangerous and reckless. Dragon's weren't good pets.

Denise was locked up in the bedroom. Florence had no wish to go to her; every glance at her face would only remind her of Min-Jung. Besides, Amanda handcuffed her, and she knew that window was a good escape point, so she'd probably taken all protective measures.

Florence could only wait.

She perched herself on the kitchen counter, with a perfect view of the three agents and their quick interactions, typing, and checking who knew what. Their low voices added to the atmosphere of a functional office.

After five minutes of it, she started to ask herself what, exactly, they were so quietly coordinating.

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The Koreans didn't come in their regular semi-circle.

Eliot had chosen a good spot, though, right in their path. But they moved forward in a tight group, five grey shadows barely visible in the fog.

He was more than two hundred feet away from them, covering the entire slope between the clearance with the car above him, and the rest of the hill going down to the house.

The group stopped.

They couldn't see him, nor feel him, and that was good. The bad thing was that he was too far away to hear anything.

He waited for them to spread and start again – his plan was to come from behind and take them down one by one – but they divided into two groups. Three of them went up towards the car. The two of them went down. _Toward the house_.

_Shit_. His blood ran cold.

Why the hell would they go to the house, when that picture had clearly showed his location uphill? Taking Denise down might've been the reason. If they tried to contact her after the other agents had locked her up, and she didn't respond, those two might've decided to check on her. Whatever the reason; why it happened wasn't important now.

He jumped up, quickly calculating. Florence was in the house with five guns around her, behind the door. Five to two wasn't that bad, they could hold their stand until he had finished with the others.

He went uphill. Three on three weren't great odds, especially not when Koreans were involved, and especially not in the woods. Sterling and his two agents were in big trouble.

His heart thundered too quick, too loud, screaming he made a mistake – but his mind wasn't affected. If ever, now was the time to be rational.

Locking his fear deep down wasn't that easy, but he used it to speed him up. He followed the three silent shadows, directing his silent curses into rage. By the moment they stopped again, he was half ready to attack them all three at the same time, just to finish with them so he could deal with the two heading anywhere near Florence.

They finally started to spread out, and he let out a silent huff of relief. _Calm down, idiot_. Somewhat belatedly, he realized how little time he would have for each of them. He could take them down only one by one. If two of them went up against him together, with his left arm only partially functional, he would be in serious trouble.

He kept himself behind them then went left, after the first one. They were surrounding the clearance with the car, and all his hope lay in the fact they were limited in numbers, with only three to cover that ground. There'll be at least two hundred feet between each of them.

The first one didn't hear him until it was too late.

That advantage was crucial; it gave him a chance for one brutal hit in the head. It softened the guy's knees and slowed him down, so his counter attack wasn't that nasty. The Korean's first strike back however, went straight into his weakened left shoulder. He saw stars, and galaxies, and even damn tiny asteroids, but he didn't retreat. He pressed forward and slammed at the Korean with the other shoulder and elbow. They both staggered – he elbowed him twice more in the head, and received two hits back – but he didn't let his opponent step back to regain his balance. After that last hit, he put all his strength into his arms, and pulled him downwards. The Korean's head slammed right into his raised knee, and the guy dropped like a sack.

No time for stopping and breathing. He pulled Megan's handcuffs and tied his hands behind his back, while the silent countdown in his head counted the seconds.

He was lucky. He managed to straighten up, even to take a few steps towards the position of the second one, when his prey burst out from the fog. He'd made too much noise with this one, and that meant that maybe the third was also on his way.

A foot in a heavy boot slammed, of course, at his left shoulder first. His pain and rage exploded at the same time, and he didn't even sway back. He swayed _forward_, catching the Korean's foot still in the air, pushing it up, and up, until he heard something breaking and a cry pierced through the fog.

If the third one hadn't already been on his way, he certainly would be now. But Eliot's mind was set only on the two who were climbing downhill; their steps he counted with dread and fear.

This one also knew how to direct pain into force which would push him forward. His fist caught Eliot across the scrape on his forehead, where a rubber bullet had taken him down, and for a moment everything spun. Eliot blocked another hit reflexively, not really seeing it, and he couldn't tell, for a dreadful few seconds, whether the fog suddenly went black or he was falling down.

Only when his eyes burned, did he realize that the scrape was bleeding again, that blood in his eyes prevented him from seeing once more. He feigned ducking and swung underneath the roundhouse kick, closed the distance and slammed his knee between the Korean's legs. Another howl followed.

The guy fell and rolled over, and a cry subsided into a low keening. Eliot didn't wait for his groping hands to find a knife or a gun; he slammed his foot into his head. Once, twice, three times, until he calmed down and his hands finally stopped moving.

He wiped the blood from his eyes with his sleeve, but it helped little with the darkening all around him. Buzzing in his head was suddenly a much louder sound.

He fell to his knees beside his prey, and turned him to pull his hands around and onto his back. Merlin's handcuffs immobilized this one.

This time he needed a second to catch his breath, to stop the spinning in his head. He didn't get one.

The third Korean looked at his fallen comrades, and took out a knife.

Before he could force himself to get up, a shrill female voice said, "Put the knife down!"

He looked sideways; Kindra and Sherrel burst out from the woods with their guns pointing at the Korean; Sterling followed them at a slower pace.

The Korean let the knife fall to the ground, but Eliot raised his hand to stop the agents when they stepped closer. "Wait, I'll do it. Don't come too close to him."

He grappled to his feet. Kindra gave him her handcuffs. The Korean didn't try anything while he handcuffed him, and threw him on the ground beside the other two.

"There are only three here," he said to Sterling. "The two went to the house."

Sterling waved his hand to the agents. "Take them down after us. Careful."

Eliot didn't wait to see what they would say to that; he went downwards. Sterling followed.

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The change in the agents' behavior was clear after another five minutes. Lisa turned her back to the kitchen counter when she pulled out her phone to talk with someone. Amanda avoided her eyes, pretending to type without pause. Florence could see that nothing on her screen moved.

Only Merlin and Morgan still maintained their excited and careful watch by the window.

Florence put a smile on her face, and jumped down. She first opened a fridge, silently humming something, and pulled a bottle out. "Anybody want something to drink?" she asked.

"Noh, nothing, thanks," the three agents said at the same time.

She closed the fridge and walked to the windows, peeking beside Megan.

Nothing suspicious, but her worry rose. She felt the phone in her pocket, just in case. It was useless, though; Eliot had no phone, she couldn't warn him. And warn him about what, exactly? That the agents avoided making eye contact with her?

She sighed and thought about some reason to sit on the porch, but there was none.

Right in the moment when she almost decided to try, she saw Eliot and Sterling coming openly across the garden.

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Sterling was, surprisingly, able to keep up with him, even though he didn't slow down a bit. There would be gunshots if the Koreans tried something, he kept saying that to himself, but it wasn't as convincing as it should've been. If he was in their place, he would've known how to enter the house silently. No, heck, he'd _done_ that. Twice.

He checked the window when they came near the garden fence; it was closed.

"Wait," Sterling panted behind him. "What the hell are you going to do? Just walk across the garden until they attack you? What's your plan?"

"To walk across the garden until they attack me," he said and continued.

A muffled curse behind him didn't dissuade him. It was his plan, of course. He might be in a panicked hurry, but he hadn't lost his mind. When the Koreans saw them moving along, absolutely normally, they would try to stop him and take him away before he reached the house, or worse for them, before the agents came out to join them. They would see this as a happy chance, and they weren't exactly known as people who failed to take risks. A split second decision, without too much thinking, that was what he needed from them.

And he got it.

He was in the middle of the lawn when two shades stepped from the dark shadows. They were only waiting in the cover of the porch, not trying to break in.

He let his relief out in a broad smile and spread his arms – ignoring the bolt of pain through the left shoulder – inviting them to come to him.

He didn't need to send an invitation twice; they jumped down from the porch, two slim, lean fighters, and…

"I would stay in that position if I were you," Sterling said behind him.

He risked a turn of his head; the Koreans made two steps in that time – but the lawn, and entire garden flashed with sudden light.

"_Put you hands on your head, and kneel down_!" a metallic speaker voice broke the silence in a roar. Behind them, from the road, came many clicks of the guns reloaded.

Sterling tilted his head a little, and smiled at him.

"No, seriously, don't move," Sterling said. "Maddox won't hesitate to shoogrghhhhhgt."

He closed that step between them in a less than a second, and his hand gripped around Sterling's throat. The roar in his head was louder than any of the yells from around them, thumping of heavy boots closing in, and more gun-metal clicking, this time much closer.

Only one sound broke through his inner growl; a door opening.

He looked sideways, beside a heavily armored group of SWAT cops aiming their weapons right at him, beside the two Koreans kneeling, surrounded by those long guns, to the porch and a small woman clutching the railing.

Their eyes met, and he forced an order on his mind. _Retreat, regroup, return_. He did this before; he could do it again. No SWAT team would be able to keep him for long. His time would come – but only if he stayed alive, and uninjured.

He released his grip, and tapped Sterling's jacket, straightening out the folds.

"Ah, well," he said with a smile. "I guess our truce did end at the best possible moment, don't you think?"

Sterling coughed and swallowed, and took two breaths like a fish pulled out of the water.

Six cops with guns surrounded them.

Sterling looked at him with a pissed off frown, then he looked at the porch. If he thought of arresting Florence as well… Eliot slowly lowered his arms and stayed motionless with an extreme effort.

Sterling spat out a curse, and waved his hand. "Maddox, come here." His voice went into a gruff scoff. "Meet Eliot Spencer, FBI's most wanted. He did put you into a spot of trouble, didn't he?" He glanced at the porch again, and his face darkened. "He is, unfortunately, also an undercover Interpol agent, working this case with me from the beginning. So, please, tell your men to stand down and step away with their guns."

Well, well. _A trace of honor_. Unbelievable.

Sterling said nothing more – except darting one final nasty glare at him – and swept Maddox away. The six guns around him scattered.

"And now, people, listen carefully," Sterling's voice rose over the commotion all around. "These are my prisoners, and they are to be escorted together, and held under the heaviest guard you can think of. I also want you to hurry up and clear out from here as fast as you can. Now move!"

Eliot turned to the porch and a small whirl who was already running to him. Her embrace almost knocked him off his feet, but this time he decided not to pay attention to that damn shoulder.

He picked her up and kissed her.

And in that moment, he knew why all of them had aimed directly at his weakened shoulder first, and his heart stopped.

He closed his eyes so not to alarm her, keeping the smile plastered on his face, and let her take him to the porch to sit.

He opened his eyes, but only when she shuffled into his hug – he held her and watched the cops running to and fro, and Sterling giving orders.

He kick-started his heart back into its usual rhythm, slowed down his breathing, and thought, frantically, going through all his options, all the solutions at the same time. Dread slowly settled into his bones.

There was a time when being a good tactician wasn't enough to survive, when only using strategy would work.

That time was now.

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	14. Chapter 14

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 14

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There's one more chapter after this one, stay tuned.

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Billy's Heliport near Putney was less than a half an hour drive from Brattleboro.

Nate decided they would go with his simple recon Plan A: a quarreling pair followed by two private investigators. Four of them could spread around easily and confuse a lot of people, even at a busy heliport, while at the same time finding out everything about flight plans and eventually the Korean whereabouts.

When they arrived, one thing became clear - they didn't even need Plan A, much less any other, more complicated variant of it.

"You know, we can still play out your Plan A," Sophie said when he stopped the van in the middle of a meadow with only one helicopter parked on it. Not a living soul anywhere in sight. "Just to stay on full form."

Hardison opened the side door and peered out. "Don't tell me they just parked a chopper here, locked it, and left it?"

Nate observed around the meadow with only a small landing circle in the middle. Two shipping containers were all that stood there besides that chopper. "I guess that word _heliport_ was a little misguiding."

"This is a medevac chopper, so at least one thing you guessed was right. What now?"

They all jumped out of the van. Nate stood by the door, thinking, while Sophie and Parker went closer to the chopper. "You brought all those bags," he said to Hardison when Parker went around the chopper. "Did you bring something useful in them? Something that might keep that chopper on the ground, permanently?"

"A water purifier, a tent, a shovel… nah, I don't think so. But I can-" A chirp from Hardison's phone cut the hacker off, and he quickly checked the message. "It's Becker. Our oca crisis has ended and without slaughtering any of the plants. He managed to fill the entire menu with the supplies that arrived."

Nate still couldn't figure out what dreadful things would happen if they had simply changed the blasted menu without Eliot knowing it, but he said nothing. "Now we only have to think what to do with four boxes with forty-nine plants in each, and possibly before Eliot returns and asks why our office looks like the scenery from Jurassic Park."

"Priorities, Nate, priorities. It's not like you to think about trivial problems while we're in the middle of serious trouble."

"Yeah, I was the one who was occupied by the menus all the time, right? Come with me. We'll take a look at that chopper and you can think of some way to keep it on the ground."

"I can't hack a computer while it's turned off, Nate, just like I can't hack a chopper that's turned, well, off."

"There are more ways to deal with a chopper, than hacking."

"Right. Like I'm the one who knows all the whoompa-paps and-" Hardison stopped talking and looked behind him, and Nate turned around. Parker stepped closer before pushing a mess of cables with lots of electronic thingies hanging dead from it, into his hands.

"Your chopper," she said. "It will only fly with a lot of fairy dust and happy thoughts. Even if they somehow manage to get some fairy dust on the black market, they'll have serious problems conjuring up happy thoughts, when they arrive and see I cut its heart out."

Hardison grinned. "I won't even mention how creepy you sound. Good job, momma."

Sophie joined them and raised her eyebrows at the cables. "I see," she said. "However we aren't any closer to getting Eliot and Florence out of… whatever mess they are in. There's nobody here, nothing we can find out. What now?"

"The general," Nate said. "Hardison?"

The hacker sighed. "To deal with the general, I'll need three things: some knowledge about the Canadian underground scene in Niagara Falls, their TV stations, and local police channels – and I don't have any of that."

"Yeah. How long?"

Another grin. "Fifteen minutes, if you let me type in peace."

Nate looked around. Hills entirely surrounded this meadow; hills with endless trees. He went to the chopper and put the cables back into the hole in side plating where Parker opened it and tore it out. Oil on his hands stained the same way blood would, and he quickly pushed the cables in and put the hatch back to hide the mess.

The only sounds around them were from birds chirping in the trees, but it would change soon. They had to clear out.

"Start the van, Parker. We are sitting ducks out here in the open." He wiped his hands on his trousers. Sophie's eyebrows jumped up once more. "Take us towards those hills, and find a good spot for observing. Hardison needs to type in peace."

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Sterling studied the speed with which evening was settling in. He made a mental calculation for the best time for media coverage. The evening headlines, spread over all the important time zones were closing in, right on time.

The garden was one huge crime scene, and everybody still worked according to his orders: fast and furious: Just how he liked it best.

He kept his back turned on the porch where Spencer and Florence sat for an entire four minutes; in that time he had talked with his agents, given orders, directed the cops. When he finally decided to take a look in that direction, he saw Spencer and Florence were still there. Four minutes of nobody paying attention to them was enough for them to clear out of there, without any questions, and more importantly, without any need to talk about his decision.

Okay, five more minutes. Maybe Spencer wasn't sure that this was _it_ – that he could actually go. Though, to be honest, maybe he was simply waiting for the sudden twist, not fully trusting Sterling that he would actually let him go. He would be suspicious if he were him, too.

He went to the police car parked last in the line of four others, ready to take the Koreans to Brattleboro. He checked the SWAT cops as he passed; all the Koreans were handcuffed, huddled together, and surrounded with the entire team.

Denise was in the last car, alone.

He opened the door. She raised her eyes to him.

"Maybe she wasn't yours… but you were _her_ friend," he said. Her gaze twitched aside. "I hope you will live a long, long life. And may your every day be colored with the last smile she gave you before you killed her."

He closed the door with a quiet click. No amount of slamming could help now to ease his hatred and bitterness that he felt. Min-Jung's death could've been prevented if only he hadn't been so blind. Her death lay on him. Only him.

He took a few steps on autopilot, dragging his feet as a heavy weight settled on his shoulders. He was only minutes apart from collapsing, and he had to use them to finish this utter mess around him and make sure everything was tied up neatly.

When he looked back at the porch, he let out an annoyed grunt; Spencer was still there. Florence babbled with Amanda near their tactical vehicle. _Bloody idiots_; this wasn't time for bonding and damn friendship bracelets. He was this near to sending it all to hell, and arresting them both.

Spencer seemed to be fascinated with observing his fingernails, sitting on the stairs with his head lowered.

But then, while he watched him with growing annoyance, Spencer raised his head and looked directly into his eyes. And a small subliminal alarm started ringing in Sterling's head.

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"Our romance thingy is obviously over, Eliot Spencer."

He stirred and looked at Florence. She waved a rag before his face. "Uhm, what?" he said.

"Uhm? Now you're going with _uhm_?" Her smile showed him she wasn't serious, something that he should've known at once. He put some effort in keeping his gaze on her, though a movement behind her drew his attention. "You aren't listening to me at all," she continued and waved her rag once more. "Do you have a concussion? I tried to wipe that blood from your face, and you didn't even blink."

Of course he didn't blink. There was too much of everything going on around them, and he monitored every step of every cop and agent going to and fro.

He was sitting on the porch stairs, leaning with his good shoulder against the railings, and he had a perfect view of the entire garden, with a good part of the road below it. The two police cars containing the heavily guarded Koreans had already left. Maddox took seriously Sterling's orders about security. That part was covered.

He was so tense that he almost felt screeching when his ribcage expanded each time he breathed; her slight frown that took the place of her smile showed him it was becoming visible too. He stretched his legs on the stairs and leant back a little more, but that attempt at nonchalance didn't work. "Okay, since you ask… yeah, that hit in the head is still spinning everything around me, so don't wave that rag too much. I just need a couple of minutes."

"Now?" she darted a sideways glance. "Wouldn't it be clever to clear out, before Sterling changes his mind?"

"It would." He forced a smile onto his face, and rubbed his forehead, carefully, to hide the falseness of the smile. "But since we are still here, monitoring them all is clever too. In fact, you can do something useful, instead of tilting around me – seriously, I only need a short breather – and you could mingle a little, see what the agents are sayin'."

"Both you and Sterling are pushing me into unpleasant territories, talking with people. I can't grift."

"Just listen. Go. And stay only where I can see you, all right? 'Cause you're right… Sterling isn't to be trusted."

She pushed the rag into his hands and got up from the stair. "Okay," she said with a troubled sigh. "Five minutes, and then I'm calling a taxi."

He nodded and smiled, then quickly frowned to remind her of his headache.

He followed her with his eyes until she stood with Amanda and two female cops, then he found himself straighten a little, resting his left arm on his knee. If he were right, he was going to need that arm very soon.

He _could_ be wrong. There might be some other random explanation why both Koreans began their attacks by first aiming at his dislocated shoulder. That could be pure coincidence, or they spotted he was guarding that arm. But denial in his line of work, led to a quick death.

Except Sterling and Florence, the only man who knew about that shoulder was the one who dislocated it: Light Eyes whom he fought in front of the lake house. Only he could tell that to the rest of his group, waiting here around the house.

He quickly counted all of them. Three Koreans he took down by the lake house, and all three of them were taken to hospital, to join the two he'd dealt with during their trek through the woods. Five down. And it was very likely that all five of them were once again back in play.

No, he corrected himself. Not all five. The first one he fought in the woods had a broken leg. Younger One from the lake house, too. His knee was shattered into pieces. The remaining three were left in somewhat better condition and they could walk: Jonas with a broken arm, the first guy from the lake house too, and Light Eyes was only knocked out, briefly. Those three would have been able to leave hospital on their own and join the rest of them. They were here.

Dammit all, he was beyond tired.

It would be so easy to grab Florence, take the car and flee while they could. He would do it, even if he had to fight his way through the cops.

But he was three Koreans short of having them all caught. Only when he had them all locked up could he hope of Florence staying safe, as Florence, and not under some false name with a false life.

He didn't have to wait long for their move.

Slow steps on the porch behind him stopped at the edge of the stairs. He could see the dark blue trousers out of the corner of his eye; a cop's uniform.

"You have a gun pointed at your back," a familiar voice said. _Jonas Kang_. "Remain sitting and don't make any sudden move."

He gave a small nod, slowly.

"Another gun is aimed at your woman. It's up to you. Move and she is dead."

He let the silence spread for few seconds, as if he was startled and didn't know what to say. "I won't move," he finally said. "But if you want me to cooperate, stay away from her. I'll go with you, but only if she stays here, unharmed. Gun or no gun – and you know I ain't bluffing, Jonas."

"We don't need her. Sit here until two more cars leave. After that, we'll go into the darker part behind the house. Understood?"

"Yep." He nodded again.

The trousers took two steps to the left, and leant on the porch railing above him. Two pairs of legs. The second guy was probably Light Eyes; the third might be somewhere on the edge of the woods, keeping Florence in his sights. Nobody would pay any attention to the two cops taking a break in a garden already full of cops.

He checked on Florence. She was still talking with Amanda; Megan and Merlin had joined them and all four of them walked to the tactical vehicle. Florence turned and glanced at him and he smiled with a genuine smile; she felt his gaze on her. She waved. He waved back.

Tired or not, he was going to end this.

He relaxed his arms and emptied his mind. No time for recovery – but enough time to concentrate on his reserves of strength.

And also, enough time to catch and hold Sterling's stare, when the bastard turned again to check on him.

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Florence didn't try to grift anybody, she just listened. Being a fly on the wall while Maddox, for the first time, talked with his snatched cops was priceless. Megan and Merlin weren't sure whether they should act heroic and proud, or cover their noses in shame, and Maddox clearly wasn't sure either. The only thing clear was his relief. That warmed her heart. The blurred line between good guys and bad guys here blurred just a little more for her, adding to her confusion.

The same SWAT team that had dragged a shot, chained and bound Eliot out from this very house was now taking away the Koreans and securing them all.

Everything around her sang _happy ending_ – and she surely knew a happy ending when she saw one – yet she wasn't stupid.

She also knew _keep her away and act like nothing was happening_ when she saw it. She saw Eliot doing exactly that far too many times before.

She talked with Amanda first, and when Merlin and Megan joined them she used their chat to be present only, listening only. No matter how hard she tried, she hadn't seen anything suspicious around them, nothing that should worry Eliot. He might expect Sterling to change his mind or act out – but in that case he wouldn't have waited. Even if he solely waited to see all the Koreans taken away, that wouldn't have put that amount of tension back into his muscles: Those very muscles that now practically pinged beads of sweat off their tensed ridges.

She checked on him and waved, he waved back, _tralalala_, and everything seemed fine. But he sat as if he was ready to shoot up at any second.

Maybe the two cops chatting only two stairs above him were the reason. Eliot Spencer didn't like having anybody lurking behind him, much less cops. It would trigger his unease. She looked closer; one of the cops had a plaster cast on his forearm; the white plaster going around his wrist and palm, visible under the sleeve. Okay, if those two were the ones he fought in the woods, and did that to them… that could be the cause for his feeling of discomfort.

She turned her back on him to glance one more time across the garden, and then it hit her.

He had said to Sterling that the cops he fought didn't have any broken bones. The only broken bones in those woods – and she had heard those awful sounds – were on the Koreans.

_Oh, shit_. A small inward meep froze in her throat.

She turned around, searching for Sterling.

Sterling stood only twenty feet away, alone, with the phone to his ear, engaged deep in conversation. She moved closer, casually, and took off her backpack, pretending to dig inside it which gave her a way to appear busy, and she could glance around from under her locks.

She was now only six feet from Sterling, and yet she didn't hear his voice.

She took out a bottle of whiskey, and checked to be sure. Sterling talked into that phone. And yet he didn't. His mouth moved and his hand accentuated, waving around, but no sound came out loud.

She put her things back into the backpack and looked over to Eliot. He was talking too.

With two Koreans stood behind him? Yes, but they couldn't see his face, couldn't know that he was deep in conversation, lip reading with Sterling; silent but obviously clear enough for both of them, according to Sterling's visibly annoyed hand.

Florence moved away.

She clutched the backpack and tried to put some order into her too fast, and too frantic thoughts. The Koreans were armed, or else Eliot wouldn't just sit there. They held him at gunpoint, but they needed him alive to deliver him and take the money. That meant they would force him to leave with them any moment now.

Sterling might not have enough time to arrange any reaction before that happened. Even if he had, she wasn't completely sure he would think of Eliot's safety first, only about collecting the Koreans himself.

Eliot rubbed his forehead and his head then bowed again. Sterling also lowered the phone he used to hide their talk, and started typing on it.

One more car left the crime scene.

Her heart raced. Merlin and Megan wandered aimlessly in front of her. If they went towards Eliot to talk…

"You two," she said. "Go to the tactical vehicle for a minute, will 'ya? I'll join you inside in a minute; I have to show you something there."

"Sure."

She waited until they climbed into the vehicle, then swallowed and took one long breath. There was one thing she could do, but before it, she had to erase everything from her face. She thought of Sophie and her natural, easy way of putting any expression upon her face. It didn't help. The smile she plastered across her face felt…plastic. She couldn't channel the seasoned grifter. She exhaled, and went directly to Eliot.

He could see through her smile, of course; the alarm in his eyes practically burned her when she stood in front of him.

"So, if you were to sit like a duck, and stare stupidly like a duck, and you have your arm injured like a broken wing, what does it make you, darling?" she chirped with a gentle smile, her eyes locked on his. She didn't glance at the two cops behind him. "I'll take care of my duckling as soon as we move from here."

"No hurry." His voice was strained, but he raised his eyebrows at her in silent question, warning, repellant, all at once.

"When you're ready. I'll be at the tactical vehicle; Amanda said she'll show me the jewel among all their stupid tracking devices: a coffee machine." She wrapped her arms around him and placed a loud smooch on his cheek. Her hand slid, shielded from the prying eyes behind him, and left her phone in his pocket.

Then she did the hardest thing she could imagine; she left him there and walked away. Feeling his burning eyes on her back softened her knees, but she didn't turn around, not even to glance again at Sterling. She opened the door to the tactical vehicle, climbed aboard and closed the door behind her.

Eliot knew he had two Koreans behind him – he had _expected_ them. _Stupid fuck_. That was why he had sent her away. That way, they couldn't have used her against him. He would have been free to act.

The lump in her throat hurt like hell.

One day, she was going to kill him. Just not today. _Please God, not today_.

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"Get up now, slowly, and walk in front of us around the house."

Eliot did what they told him, hoping they wouldn't ask themselves why he hadn't reacted immediately, now that Florence was safe inside the tactical vehicle. Guns that they aimed at him weren't a problem, especially held so close to him.

He told Sterling to stay put and let him deal with them, and only requested to ensure Florence was safe, so he could expect a clear battlefield. Before he made any moves of his own, he had to be sure that all three of them were here. And that there was only three of them, and there wasn't anyone else waiting in the background with a head full of info on Florence.

Afternoon shadows were becoming dark and nobody noticed them when they disappeared into the trees behind the house. He walked slowly and stumbled a few times intentionally. The scrape on his forehead served the same purpose as it had done when he had the SWAT team to deceive; it looked nasty, blood covering that side of his face. If it didn't itch him a little, he wouldn't even notice it – but it might help to deceive them a little.

They made a circle and climbed down towards the road and the waiting police car. The third Korean was inside it.

Now was the time to take them down, while the third was still inside the car. Their broken bones did even up the odds a little.

"Short ride," Jonas said.

That meant they had another stop. He needed to see what that was and most importantly, who else was there.

"Kneel down."

He would be suspicious if one of them had blindly obeyed without objection, had the tables been turned, so he stood, not moving, until one of them slammed him across the back with their gun. Only then did he sway and knelt down.

The barrel of the gun was cold when Jonas pressed it against his forehead. Light Eyes pulled his arms back – knowing exactly how to twist that damn shoulder he had dislocated, to hurt him the most – and tied them behind his back. Zip ties, two of them, gnawed at his skin. He could break one, if his hands were in front of him. Two, at the back – that was impossible.

They grabbed him then, and hurled him onto the back seat, and this time he didn't have to feign a grunt of pain. This was a Brattleboro police car, not State Police, and that meant plastic seats. A collision with the seat was hard, and this ride promised to be bouncy.

Light Eyes sat beside him, with the gun still in his hand. Jonas rode shotgun.

He couldn't move nor break his bonds, at least as far as they knew – and pointing the gun at him was overkill. They were too damn careful.

"So," he said when the car left the small road to their house and headed for the main road. "How short is this short ride?"

Jonas turned around and nodded to Light Eyes. The hand with the gun flashed towards him without warning, and white, cold pain surged through his head.

White flashes behind his eyes went through forty-two shades of grey until it sank into the blackest black he had ever seen. _Definitely overkill,_ was his last thought before all the sounds around him ceased.

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"Yes, Maddox, keep me informed." Sterling looked over his shoulder as one more police car left the garden. The captain was already in Brattleboro, organizing things from that side. "I will deal with this part, and will you just make sure that they're all accounted for."

When he looked back at the porch, Spencer and the two Koreans were gone.

They only collected their future award, they hadn't tried to set their comrades free, and they could have done so easily. He knew at least four ways for guys posing as cops to use all the commotion and drive off with cars containing prisoners. That was a major change in their tactics from 'working together' to 'everyman for himself'.

He wanted all of them arrested as much as Spencer wanted it, and now he didn't know where they were heading. Trusting Spencer that he would deal with them was one thing, and letting them slip from his hands was another. Questioning the arrested Koreans was futile – but he had one weak link to press.

He went to check on the car with Denise; he had talked with her only five minutes before, and she wasn't yet headed to Brattleboro. Two SWAT cops stood guard nearby. Sterling only looked inside for a second; he didn't have to check. She seemed like she was resting or meditating; her eyes were closed.

Her neck was broken.

And there went his first chance to find out where they were taking Spencer, and _again_, he had to trust that damn criminal to do his part of the job.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" A voice bellowed from the tactical vehicle. Florence jumped out. "You're not planning to go after him?"

"Get back into that vehicle, Florence. He was the one who said that he'd deal with them, not me."

"There are two of them at least." Her voice was gravely with fear. "Two of them at the same time, closed around him. With guns, Sterling. They were armed this time, they held him at gunpoint. He can't do it. I thought you were the last person to share his idiotic ideas."

"What I learned when dealing with the Leverage team is that they usually do exactly what they want to do."

"He wanted to move them away from me!" Her cry burst out; she took a step forward and bore her eyes into his. "I'm going after him."

"To do what, exactly? Beat them with a club? Babble them into submission? Don't be stupid-"

"I don't know – but I'll find out. At least I will know their next location. I won't let them slip away. We will never find him again if we let them take him too far."

Megan and Merlin came out of the tactical vehicle too. It only took one glance at them for him to sigh heavily.

"Florence, give me the gun."

She took a step back. Merlin groped his empty holster, spitting quiet curses.

Sterling outstretched his hand; she crossed her arms.

"You are a man of law," she whispered. "How can you leave someone in mortal danger without help?"

"The only men in mortal danger are those three poor souls, and we are all aware of that."

"Three?" She swallowed down her tears. She said nothing more, just continued to look at him.

Her eyes were huge on that pale face, and desperation crept into them with every second of his silence.

Merlin and Megan could take that gun from her, but he hesitated to give the order. Desperation or not, there was also a thoroughly pissed off anger behind those eyes; she would go after Spencer even without the gun.

Damn it all, she was as annoying as hell. But she was also truly adorable. Spencer really didn't deserve someone as special as this woman in his cursed life.

She was, also, half right. Spencer maybe was overconfident in this matter, and Sterling didn't want to lose the Koreans when he could possibly collect them all. More importantly, he was still in debt to Spencer for saving his life, more than once, and if getting him out of this trouble meant they were even, that would be one more positive thing.

The little bloodhound before him smelled his hesitation, and her eyes flashed with hope.

"I'm not saying we are going after him. We can't know where-"

But it was too late. "Thank you!" She jumped forward and placed a kiss on his cheek. "I'm liking you more than hating you right now, and trust me, that's something. Go now! Go, go!"

He stood stupefied, with his hand still outstretched.

She turned in a whirl and hurried to the vehicle. Merlin and Megan followed her with large grins plastered on their faces.

Ah, bloody hell… he chased away a short attack of annoying warmth, and put a scowl deliberately back up on his face. Irritation was the best way to fight her softening effects. "We can only drive aimlessly around, Florence!" Yet, he waved to the nearby agents, Chloe and Sherrel, to accompany them. "We don't know-"

"I put my phone into Eliot's pocket – the one you were tracking from the outset." She opened the door and hung on it from the first step, and her smile of hope mixed with fear blossomed across her face. "Amanda is tracking it as we speak. I've told her you gave an order. My bad."

And maybe she wasn't Spencer's undeserved price – maybe she was his punishment.

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They threw him out of the car, and that brought him back round, especially when the searing pain shot through his shoulder. Eliot turned his head to the side and blinked to clear the fog before his eyes; a waste green sea spread before him. The grass under his face was thick and cut; they weren't on some meadow in the woods. This was a lawn.

A pair of heavy boots walked towards him, and one of them slammed into his shoulder, turning him onto his back. He arched his back to ease the pressure on his arms, and spat a curse. A blurry shadow hovered above him; Light Eyes grinned.

"You really hold grudges indefinitely, don't you?" Eliot panted the words; breathing was difficult in this position.

"Hold your breath; you're going to need it. We have a long journey ahead of us."

The fog cleared and now he could see a helicopter in the middle of a small heliport. Only two metal containers were by the circle on the grass. This was a small, probably private landing site. No other people around, only three Koreans. But he had to be sure.

"Don't tell me you know how to fly this thing? You'll need a pilot, you damn fool."

"We have one," Light Eyes pointed at Jonas who stood with the third Korean by the huge steel beast.

"We have a problem," Jonas said. "Come here and open this hatch."

Light Eyes slammed him again with another grin that promised more of it in the near future, and went to his friends.

Eliot shook his head and rolled onto his right side to watch the trio. They lowered their voices, and yet he could hear hurry in their quick words. He glanced around once more, than scrambled to his knees.

They paid no attention to him; their backs were turned to their helpless and tied up prey, and they argued about something that made clanging metal noises.

Those three were the last thing that stood in the way of Florence's safety – he didn't even have to think about his chances.

He pressed the silver-feather bracelet. Two blades darted out, and in two short moves of his wrists, the zip ties fell off.

He got up and stretched his shoulders.

Then he smiled.

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All four of them stood lined up in the deep shadow of a huge tree, again with binoculars. Nate had checked two times if their van was completely invisible from the meadow they observed.

"Ouch," Hardison said. "I'm really feeling the need to warn them, poor bastards. They have no idea what- ouch, ouch, _ouch_." The hacker lowered his binoculars and squinted. "I don't have to watch that. Tell me when it's over." He moved a few steps back to the van and sat by the laptop placed on the floor near the open side doors.

Nate also moved his focus from the slaughter by the chopper, and observed the edges of the woods around the heliport, and both roads leading to it. There was still enough light to see everything normally – including every gruesome detail of that fight – and on the road from Brattleboro appeared a dark, huge vehicle.

Parker's evil giggle told him the fight was over. He only glanced once to see the shape Eliot was in: standing, only slightly swaying, and annoyed. _A usual day at work_.

Hardison stopped typing.

"And here we go. I had no experience with the Canadian police before, but damn if they ain't fast when there's children involved. Come and see this."

Sophie and Parker were still watching the heliport, so Nate could come closer to see a video feed. A reporter stood in front of a hotel, live recording. "_After an anonymous tip about child molesting, Niagara Falls City Police have arrested a South Korean tourist, age 67, in his hotel room with two under aged girls. The suspect is being taken into custody, and his identification is being verified as we speak. The girls have been taken into_-"

Hardison cut the video. "It took me almost seven minutes to find and arrange two under age prostitutes. Paying with his credit-card was a piece of cake after that. I directed the police onto their pimp, so all his girls will be pulled off the streets and taken care of. That's the good part. The bad part is…are you aware that we might be making an international incident with this, when they found out he is really a North Korean general?"

"We'll worry about it later. For now, let's just-"

Sophie's gasp of dismay cut Nate's words off. He ran back to her and Parker. "What the hell-"

"A t-shirt under a silk suit! That's outrageous! A _red_ t-shirt, for crying out loud!"

Nate quickly looked down and adjusted the focus on his binoculars. "You meant to say: Nate, Sterling's arrived at the scene?"

"I just said that!"

"Right." He sighed and checked the number of agents who poured out of the dark vehicle. Four police cars followed in line. Florence was among the agents, free. She looked as if she nagged at Sterling, according to the pained expression on his face.

Nate put the binoculars down, and smirked. "Hardison, start packing."

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For the best part of their short drive, Florence was glued to the front window; she sat between Sterling and Amanda, who was driving. The two women didn't stop talking for one second, and Sterling was as close to shooting them, as he would ever be.

"If those three don't kill him, I will! Are you aware why he has done this? Because he wanted to deal with all of them, so Maddox can put them in jail and I can return to my life! As if I didn't tell him that I can live without it all – no, not without – that I can live _with_ a new name and identity!" Florence buried her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes.

Sterling took a deep breath instead of her; _he_ needed oxygen at the end of her rambling.

"That's so romantic," Amanda said right in the moment when he thought that was it, and Florence would stay silent for the rest of their drive.

"It's not romantic. Damn breakfast in bed is romantic! This is simply stubborn and wrong! He is risking everything for something I gave up on, just because he thinks that's the way it should be."

Now Sterling rubbed his eyes. Passing out seemed inevitable at this point, but he was so spent he didn't really care. It would surely spare him from the rest of her nagging spree.

When a thought that his agents were capable to finish this themselves took a root, he forced himself to stir back to the present.

And right on time. The four police cars that followed them wailed their sirens when all of them saw the heliport. Amanda sped up when the clearance opened out in front of them, and three last curves on the road tossed them all around. He barely kept himself upright on his seat; an effort almost unbearable when she stopped with screeching tires right in front of the helicopter.

Florence opened the door and jumped out; she had given the gun to Merlin when they started, so he let her do it. Three agents followed. With two cops, no matter how young and inexperienced, they had enough fire-power to deal with three Koreans, even without those cops behind them.

He followed them, blinking away the dark dots dancing in front of his eyes.

One black dot formed into a man standing above several other black dots, these ones laying on the green field.

Maybe getting out of the vehicle was a mistake. He passed by agents who were all over the three Koreans – tied up and unconscious – and went to the chopper, the only thing on which he could lean without showing everybody that he couldn't stand without support.

Florence and Spencer stood a few steps aside; all her threats melted into soft whispers. Good thing there weren't any more Koreans, because even Spencer seemed to be lost for the world.

And for the second time in only half an hour, a mess of police, agents and Koreans swirled around Sterling. He clutched the chopper so his shaky legs would hold him for just a little longer, and tried to endure.

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All Florence's angry threats ended with one relieved _ungh_ when she buried her face in his shirt and held him tight, so Eliot decided to say nothing.

They moved out of the way so the cops could process the crime scene, and he just darted a grateful smile to Amanda who directed the others away from the two of them. This wasn't the best situation for your average statement taking.

Two ambulances arrived, adding to the throng of people and various vehicles.

The keys of the police car he was in were tucked safely in his pocket.

"Hey!" he said to Kindra who hurried past them. "I'll return this car to Maddox, if you don't need me here."

"Yeah, sure." She waved.

"Finally," Florence whispered. "Now, please? And don't stop driving until we have a hundred miles between us and Vermont."

"And Sterling," he added. The bastard was overseeing everything, and he didn't really need another twist in this plot of his. But Florence, much to his surprise, followed his glance and withdrew from his hug. She went to Sterling and he quickly followed her.

Only when he came close to him could he see that Sterling wasn't capable of prolonging this. The man could barely keep his eyes open, with an ashen face and gritted teeth. He maybe wanted this to end more than they did.

Florence also took in his state, because she frowned with sincere worry. "You should jump into one of those ambulances, Sterling," she said.

"That's the plan," Sterling said, then looked at him. "Kindra checked the hospital. The last two, those with broken legs, are still there, and they will be transferred to the hospital jail. We have all of them."

He nodded.

"Goodbye, James," Florence said. Then she smiled and raised her hand, and much to his surprise, licked her index finger.

She rubbed the finger between Sterling's eyes as if wiping away the stain. "Clean. You're free," she said. "Until the next time."

And they shared a silent grin. Sterling's was wolfish, but it was a grin nevertheless.

Eliot looked at them in turns; no one cared to explain this. "What was that?" he asked.

"Nothing," she grinned back at him. Her eyes were laughing until she returned them to Sterling. "Eliot…"

Sterling swayed a little, resting his back against the chopper. Something behind him fell with a quiet clang, and a metal plate fell off revealing the bundle of cut off cables and wires in all colors.

They all looked closer, and Sterling's eyes sharpened in an instant. Eliot suppressed a curse; each of them came to the same conclusion immediately.

"I presume you'll tell me you did this?" the agent asked him.

"Yeah, just in case. No point in letting them fly away if something went wrong."

"No point in doing that after you'd taken them down – and impossible to do it before you did that." Sterling looked away from him as he spoke and raised his eyes to the hills around them.

Eliot forced himself not to do the same.

Helicopters rarely vomited up their own guts without help.

Sterling's eyes again had that predatory glow, in spite of his weakness. A hunter on a trail; Eliot could hear the wheels turning in the agent's head. Everybody around them was busy, nobody looked at their direction, but that could change at any second.

"I'm willing to say we're even now," Eliot said. "But Florence was right – you should go and get in that ambulance."

"In a minute," Sterling said.

Florence did notice the change in Sterling's posture, but she searched his eyes for a clue. He took her by the hand and a few steps aside.

"Don't hate me – but Sterling is going with us." He lowered his voice.

"What?" she choked on a question. "Eliot, what part of a hundred miles between us and Vermont and Sterling did you not understand? Why?"

"Because Nate and the team are probably here. Someone made sure that chopper couldn't fly anywhere. Sterling is starting to think, and it's better to prevent that shit than to deal with his actions. We have three, almost four days before I go to Washington, and I don't want him on their tail now when they are close by. Nor do I want him close to us. Not now, nor ever again."

"And taking him with us will help in not having him close? You need a CT scan."

"Trust me." This time, he realized with a relief, he could say those words without flinching. And that, if anything, meant the world to him. "Now go to Amanda and do something constructive – the agents know I'm not an Interpol agent and that he only left me off the hook. They'll set off every alarm to everybody if I simply snatch him, so… When we leave, there shouldn't be any chase after us. Make it happen."

"I can't do that!" A real panic flashed in her eyes, but he kept his broad, reassuring smile up. "You know, for a grifter, you grift too damn little! I'm doing all the work here!"

"What would Buck do, writer?"

"He would… he is a man, I can't… wait a minute…" She lowered her nose a little and frowned. He waited. Sterling in his peripheral vision was reaching for his phone.

"Okay," she finally whispered. She turned on her heel and marched toward Amanda who was busy talking with the cops.

Eliot went to Sterling, and the agent's hand with the phone returned into his pocket.

"You've never told me why you were searching for Nate," he said directly.

"And I never will. Leverage team has many uses. Especially a hitterless Leverage team. Spencer, if I were you, I would take Florence and leave while you still can. That means now."

"You're right." He smiled at him and outstretched his hand. Sterling looked at his hand as if expecting a snake on his palm, but accepted a handshake.

He glanced at Amanda and Florence - still holding Sterling's hand – and they both looked at them in the best possible moment, witnessing the mushy moment. Amanda nodded and smiled; he smiled back.

"Sterling wants to come with us and talk with Maddox," he heard Florence's voice lowered to a confidential whisper. "I don't think that's a good idea; you see how bad he looks. Do you think you can put some sense into your boss and keep him here?" Sterling heard it too, and alarm flashed in his eyes. No time for any reaction; Eliot lowered his hand and took a step closer, twisting his wrist and immobilizing him.

"I don't think so," Amanda said. "If he wants to go with you, no one will stop him. Just make sure that that visit ends in Brattleboro hospital, will you?"

"Don't worry; we'll take care of him. No – _I_ will take care of him. Men are reckless, and not to mention heroic fools."

"Tell me about it."

Florence waved to the agent; when she turned again to the two of them – both standing close, almost in a friendly hug – her eyes glazed with panicky questions.

Eliot wrapped his arm around Sterling's back, resting his hand over the hole in his shoulder. He didn't even have to touch it – nor he would do that – but Sterling knew, precisely, which move was allowed, and which wasn't. He only breathed.

"Smile, _James_," he said. "After all, you won this game. You're allowed to gloat."

Florence joined them, and he threw the car keys to her. The car was only sixty feet from them; they had to pass between two ambulances to reach it. She led the way, and the two of them walked slowly after her. Eliot directed Sterling's steps, hovering with care over the wounded man. He waved to the cops to clear the way for the victorious agent in charge, and returned several smiles.

"What the hell you think you're doing, Spencer?" Sterling said through his frozen smile. His silent rage radiated in hot waves around him. Eliot tightened his grip.

"All this time we all knew you couldn't be trusted," Eliot said when they reached the car, and Florence opened a door for them. He helped him sit on the back seat and took his gun. "But we all forgot one thing – the Leverage team can't be trusted, either. We are criminals after all."

He closed the door behind him and Florence, took a wheel, and drove off the heliport.

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"And what now?" Sophie asked while they followed the lonely car down the road, before it disappeared from their sight.

Nate gave his binoculars to Hardison, and went to the van. "Now we go home."

"And that's it?" Parker sounded as if she couldn't believe his words. "We flew all this way from Portland, only to pull a handful of cables out? Where's the fun in this?"

"I wouldn't say we were here for fun, but she is partially right," Hardison added. He collected all their binoculars and put them into the bag, while they boarded the van. "Sterling is still there with the two of them. We won't do anything about it?"

"Nope, we won't. The Koreans are taken care off, the general is in custody, and they left freely, leaving the cops and agents behind them. They are not in immediate, maybe in any danger anymore." Nate started the van. "Unless you think we should save Sterling from Eliot and Florence. Is that what you're saying?"

"Almost." Sophie smiled. "But I wish I could be a fly on that wall. I can bet the next several hours will be interesting for Sterling."

"There are no walls in the car."

"All right then, a fly on the windshield, Parker."

"Flies on the windshield are smudged all over it. They are dead. And dead flies can't hear anything."

"Nice, Parker." Sophie sighed. "So, Logan airport, Nate?"

"Yeah. We'll be home before midnight."

"Maybe you two," Hardison said. "Your part of the Washington job is in the Portland area. Parker and I will go directly to Washington. I can work on Castelman Security vault from there. We'll prepare groundwork for Eliot's arrival in Sunday."

Nate watched Parker in rear-view mirror; Parker with her diabolic grin. "Only if you can guarantee me that you won't be visiting the National Museum of Natural History," he said. Parker's grin faded.

"Why should we…oh." Hardison nodded at him. "Right. No museums."

Both him and Sophie watched Parker – the thief also nodded, but she lowered her stare down and to the left with the expression of complete innocence. Something to study and worry about all the way back to Boston.

Nate darted a last glance at the heliport to make sure no cars went after Eliot and Florence, and drove away.

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	15. Chapter 15

The Kryptonite Job – Chapter 15

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Well, this is it :/ The end.

The stories which follow this one are The SNAFU Job, and The Redhead Twins Job. I'm thinking about putting the note about following story at the end of every one, because it's getting confusing. Not only reading, but writing too. I had to stop myself from mentioning de Bruin in Eliot's thoughts – de Bruin who appears only in the last story.

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Future plans: three possible stories. One is Eliot's return to the team cca ten days after The Season Six Job, with a slightly awkward atmosphere plus some sort of a job. That one would be number 3 in series. I have one funny, short story that would go at the end, being number 9 – it would be shame not to show how Eliot organized their seeing each other, and what two words Nate had for him. The last one is, of course, de Bruin and his revenge.

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I'll take some time and see which one will start to grow and push me into writing. Maybe none will. The hard truth is - Leverage fandom is dying, and though I did everything I could in those past three years, I'm tired and discouraged. The Texas Mountain Laurel Series passed 900 000 words a few chapters ago. And I feel extremely stupid when I write 10 hours a day, seven days a week, and pour 10000 word chapters every Friday. For what? My motivation is below zero. Professional writers have sales to push them forward and motivate them, to show them that somebody reads their work. We don't have anything except your feedback. According to reviews on last few chapters, I have five readers. :D Marvelous, isn't it? :D Do you want to know how close I was to simply stop writing and leave this one unfinished, and how many times? No, better not.

You who don't review – be very, very grateful to those few who always find some time to write something. Only because of them you read those stories, they keep me writing. And if I continue, that will be for them, again.

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In meantime, I'll try to refill my batteries. And I should really try to make that video trailer for The Season Six job, maybe even for The Kryptonite Job, though the only possible choice for Florence is Meg Ryan, and that might mess with your impression of her. I'll think about how to show her without showing her. :/

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PS: Don't stop reading when you reach THE END – scroll down, there's an epilogue after that, only divided a little :D

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Until our next meeting… stay well, and read other writers. :D

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Florence could hear lots of words behind Sterling's stubborn silence. The agent lay sideways on the back seat of the police car Eliot had snatched, and that must've been uncomfortable as hell. She had given him Eliot's jacket to put under his head; he refused. She nudged him, tempting him with water, whiskey, a sandwich; he only flipped her one of his pissed off glares.

She was kneeling on the passenger's seat, looking back at him, and for the last twenty miles she had felt another pair of pissed off eyes glaring at her, from the opposite direction. Eliot frowned the moment she had taken off her seat belt, and hadn't stopped since.

She was better off out in the woods last night than now, in relative safety. During that time, they at least articulated their annoyance with each other. This sulking silence was heavy, and in turn so was her heart.

She tried not to meet Eliot's eyes too much, upset with this unknown, cold edge in them.

Although she had managed to calm Amanda's suspicion and nobody knew they had taken Sterling with them, and not only to Brattleboro, this _was_ abduction. Legally, she had committed a crime, real crime – with a victim, and a witness to it this time, one who wasn't likely to be full of forgiveness.

Her unease grew with every mile. They'd crossed State lines, and that meant the FBI would be after them as well. The most frightening thing was her hesitation in asking Eliot anything about his future plans with Sterling. She dreaded the answer.

Not only had they kidnapped an Interpol agent, they were endangering him as well. Sterling continued to drift in and out of consciousness.

She desperately tried to keep Sterling awake, babbling nonsense until she almost lost her voice, until she was certain he couldn't hear her anymore. Only when she stopped talking did Eliot spare a glance at his prisoner. She hoped he would stop and call an ambulance – but his foot only pressed the gas pedal harder.

Boston's lights rose in front of them.

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This meant serious trouble. Sterling knew that more from listening to the tremor in Florence's voice, rather than Spencer's heavy silence. The only time when he felt a real smile in her voice was when Amanda spoke directly to Spencer, after about an hour's drive. The agent asked about their whereabouts, with not so well acted calm in her voice. Of course his people knew he'd been taken – they weren't stupid.

Spencer smashed the police radio after that call, and Florence's voice lost its cheer. "You see?" she rambled nevertheless. "They really like you. They are worried. You built yourself a nice team, and one rotten apple means nothing."

He didn't open his eyes.

"C'mon, don't be such a- we're being nice to you."

He didn't move. Yes, she was being nice, and that said a lot. This time the little writer might've learned exactly what it meant to fall in love with a ruthless killer. He had warned her and she hadn't listened.

"I think he's unconscious." There was definitely caution in her voice when she said that to Spencer. "Eliot, we really should-"

"He's acting," Spencer said; the hitter reached and pulled up a plastic barrier between the front and back seats. _Clever bastard_. Now he could only hear them if he pressed his ear on the plastic. Instead of that, he remained motionless, laid back almost horizontally.

He was under Spencer's radar, staying low behind him – but he had a perfect view of Florence and her upset eyes while she watched Spencer.

"_You know, you should call Nate and see what really happened back there. Maybe that wasn't them after all_." She spoke fast, but he read her lips with ease.

Spencer's reply lasted almost a minute, and her face changed into a visible frown while she listened to it. "_Okay, but aren't you curious_?" she said. "_I also think you should contact them as soon as you can. Hardison bought us a few more days – what if he has managed to postpone your job even more? What if you don't have to travel Sunday morning? It'd be useful to know that while making our plans. And you can ask him about that oca menu – it troubled you yesterday. I don't want you troubled while you're here_."

Whatever Spencer replied now, it softened her face into a smile. It distorted the beginning of her sentence; he could read only the last half of it. "…_he could have a few ideas about Sterling_."

Well, it seemed that she was starting to realize the depth of shit she was in. She wanted to call Nate, not because she was interested in their action at the heliport, but to pour some sense into the hitter. However, Sterling didn't share her worries. He knew Spencer wasn't going to kill him – at least not while she was around. Maybe not at all. The surprising lack of lethal violence on his part still confused him.

Spencer spoke again. Sterling didn't know what he said, but he could see the effect. Just as his last reply put the smile on her face, this one erased it as she listened.

"_Stop scaring me! Just tell me, for crying out loud_!" her voice almost broke through the plastic. "_What are you going to do with him_?"

And when Spencer answered her question, Sterling wasn't so sure anymore he was safe in his hands – because her eyes grew wide, glazed with dread and pity.

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In the end, she was ashamed that she doubted Eliot. When they left Sterling where Eliot wanted – and had clearly planned from the beginning of their drive - he even called Amanda to tell her Sterling's location.

That left only two of them in the car. She had no idea what to do or feel now.

The trouble was over, though she could barely perceive that. With the impending night fall, it seemed that all those days of struggling fell heavily upon her, emptying her brain and heart equally. She curled up on the seat, leaving Eliot to drive across Boston.

Everything around them was like it had been when he first collected her from the convention – Boston evening, rivers of lights.

"It can't have been only three days," she said. "I feel like we spent three months in those hills."

He said nothing, just smiled. She studied the street-lights as they danced across his face, just like she had back then.

"What now?" She had to ask that, but she didn't really want an answer. She didn't care. Her empty mind staggered like a drunk. To be honest, she wanted to go home. She must've been exhausted to the point of collapsing when a night spent cuddling with Orion, in her bed, _alone_, was more tempting then cuddling with Eliot Spencer.

"You're hungry, dirty and dead tired," he said. "We'll take care of that first. We both need sleep."

"Sounds good to me," she said with a smile, but she twitched inside at the mere thought of another set of his precautions. Nameless inns, plastic rooms and constant covering of their tracks; that was all too much for her right now. "We can't simply go to my place? Interpol is occupied for now – I don't think Sterling would-"

"No. Sterling isn't the only one. I thought the Koreans showed you that."

She bit off the snarky reply that almost escaped her and with a growing surprise realized her eyes filled with tears. Whatever they did now, it would be too much for her. This drive was also too much, everything around her. Even him. But she was, unfortunately, experienced enough to recognize what was happening.

"I think I'm… slightly upset," she stated quietly. Heading for a break down or worse, into shell shock, was a much better description.

He glanced at her. "Yeah, I was wondering when it would hit you." He reached to her and his thumb caressed her cheek. It was enough for a dam to break; tears ran freely.

"I w-want to go home," she stuttered through the tears, hating herself.

"I know. But that's not possible right now, and you'll have to trust me a little more. Can you close your eyes and try to rest for one more hour? After that we'll stop."

"Okay," she whispered. Not because she agreed, but because there was nothing else to say to that. She didn't have any choice.

She curled up as comfortably as was possible and closed her eyes, and immediately knew why he had made her do that. She felt like an ant caught in the sink. Water swirled her round and took her down the drain. No wonder; a whole night of dreadful trekking, only fifteen minutes of dozing in their cave this morning, and after that the day continued with shock after shock. She was beyond all exhaustion by now.

And he continued to drive. She didn't really sleep, she simply couldn't open her eyes, and she was aware of his circling around the town. He didn't leave Boston. He stopped a few times and left the car for few minutes; the third time he carried her outside and put her into a new one, bigger and more comfortable.

A soft seat swallowed her completely this time, and she sank into a deep slumber.

When she opened her eyes again, he was shaking her.

"I need you to walk and look normal for a minute. Can you do that?"

"Walk yes. Normal no." She fought the confusion. "Why?"

His laugh didn't answer her question – but it was the most beautiful sound she had heard for ages. She scrambled out.

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"The Ritz-Carlton?" she whispered squinting at the too bright lights that reflected from huge mirrors in the spacious lobby. "What happened with your 'stay low' plan?"

Eliot pulled her after him. She glanced down her sweatpants and his jacket she still wore; her shoes left a muddy trail on the carpet. The eyes of every person in the lobby were on her back, she was sure. _This is reckless_. "How much charm did you have to use to get us a room here? Who would let us inside, anyway? I look like a homeless person." She rubbed her eyes to clear them and stay awake. When she finished, they were in the elevator. A soft swoosh almost knocked her down again, but he held her tight. Maybe she could sleep while standing; he wouldn't let her fall down.

Her knees were shaking so bad that she was ready to curl up in the elevator for the night.

Two more doors opened before them so she had to drag her feet inside. This wasn't a room; she realized when glass walls opened before her. Boston's night-time lights spread across the sight to reveal the Presidential Suite.

And the first – and only – thing she saw beside the window was a huge modern painting on the wall; a beautiful sepia portrait of an oriental woman. Once more, Min-Jung's smile flashed before her, and she lost it.

She had no clear memory of the rest of it. She couldn't stop crying not even when Eliot put her under the shower, and wrapped her into a robe and towels like a child. She took a few spoons of something warm and salty, but just because it seemed to be important to him.

He carried her to bed then. His warmth, and his quiet words unleashed one more round of crying; she clutched at him and wept until everything around them dissolved into nothing.

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Sleeping would have been more than clever, but Eliot had more things to do before that.

He emptied a bag full of phones he had bought on the way here and called Hardison.

"I'm honored you spared some time to talk to us mere mortals, while you're on your vacation," Hardison sang immediately. "We've been waiting for your next flag signal, yet nothing came. Tiresome wait, I must say. Is this it? Are you sending a signal now?"

Yeah, they've been waiting for the signal, _my ass_. But if that was how they wanted to play this, he could play with them. "No need for that, the waters are clear. How's the weather in Portland?"

"Simply _marvelous_." He could see Hardison's insanely broad grin behind those words. "I mean, it's raining, of course, but _marvelously_."

He lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose; he could hear an airplane engine in the background. "Right. I hope you're having a great time."

"We're having a _mar_-"

"Say marvelous one more time, Hardison! One more time!"

"Marvelous."

Dear God, he was too damn tired for this. "Look, I'm calling you because I had to get rid of my phone."

"And you want all your contacts, applications and all those other useful programs I put there for you, never to use it ever, onto this new one you're calling me from, and perhaps immediately while we speak, expecting that new phone would just make a _plop_ sound and all of it will materialize inside? That ain't how it works, but thank you for having that immense trust in my abilities."

He hadn't growled once at any of the Koreans, and only twice at Sterling, but now he let out one low growl before he even noticed it.

"Awww, now I know everything is back to normal. And that reminds me… what would you do if things back in the brewery weren't normal in your absence? Would you return all mushy, soft and full of forgiveness, maybe?"

"Right now, nothing – because I know you wouldn't risk upsetting me with some brewery catastrophe, and you would find a way to make everything work, so as not to spoil my mushy, soft and forgiving mood." He lost his patience half way through the sentence. "Spit it out. What have you done with my menu?"

"Your menu is intact. But I worked on the interior decoration of our offices. It's too dark and cold in there, so I thought that bringing more life inside would be good for everybody. More green and more light, for starters. Accent on green."

That actually wasn't that bad. George would be happy with more light, especially if Hardison managed to bring real sun inside, and not just more artificial lights. George's green tone was slightly pale lately, in spite of the dehumidifier.

"You'll see when you get back," Hardison continued. "But Washington first. I expect you there Sunday morning… okay, Sunday afternoon, but that's my final offer. I'm working on Castelman Security Vault as we speak, trying to see about those damn lasers, and I blame you if I don't manage to deal with it in time. First that Afghanistan mess that de-concentrated me, now this Korean adventure of yours, and I'm upset."

Why did all these upset people pour rivers of words out because of their state of mind? He didn't talk when he was upset. Or was it only his people? And how had he managed to surround himself with this babbling crowd?

Questions to ponder upon the whole night, indeed. This time, Hardison didn't fill his silence, and typing sounds now mixed with the plane engine noise.

He took the phone and stood by the glass wall that over-looked the green sea of Boston Common Park. Boston spread out behind it; a forest of ever-alive lights. Tall towers twinkled with their lit windows against the black sky. Gold dome on The State House was right before his nose. The Presidential Suite had a small telescope in front of the glass wall, but he didn't have to use it to know which lights behind Beacon Hill belonged to Massachusetts General.

He missed Boston.

"You okay, man?" Hardison said. Soft and slow, just how he always pronounced that rarely used question.

He also rarely responded to that. "What else have you done while sitting stationed in Portland, Hardison?"

"Oh, though we were practically not moving from the office, we were busy. We stumbled upon a case of under-age prostitution, and pulled several girls off the streets. Their pimp went down – and another collateral victim. A Korean tourist in Niagara Falls; this guy ordered the two girls for his room while he waited for some package to be delivered from our side of the border. Bad luck, don't ya think?"

Bad luck indeed. He smirked at Hardison's gloating sound of voice. "Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it – we are all happy when we can save our girls. Speaking of girls, how's Fl…"

"Nope. We ain't speaking of any girls."

"But-"

"Nope."

"I'd really like to be present when you try that nope shit of yours with Soph-"

"Nope."

Hardison let out an exasperated sigh. "As you wish. Is there anything else we need to know, except that we're not allowed to speak about Florence, and that 'waters are clear'?"

He quickly calculated the time they needed to get back to Portland. "I'll call Nate tomorrow, but that's mainly it. Ten Koreans, all accounted for."

"Okay, call if you need anything."

Hardison cut the call.

He reached for the telescope and turned it towards Mass Gen, yet he didn't look through it.

His phone produced a quiet _plop_, and he smiled and checked it. He had all his numbers back.

Hardison was probably annoyed with giving him only that, but he in fact needed only one number for now. He chose the latest addition to his contacts, and dialed the number.

"Good evening, Clark Woodward," he said when he heard a click on the line after three rings. It was evening time in L.A. "I have a few questions about your counselor role on the Magnificent Seven show. Do you have a minute for me?"

"Who is this?" an unfamiliar gruff voice from the other side said. "Are you a reporter? I don't-"

"Eliot Spencer."

Silence on the other end was full of quick thinking. He moved from the window and sat in front the fireplace and small table with scattered remains of their dinner.

"I know one Eliot Spencer. Are you some other one?"

"Nope."

"Okay. What do you want?"

"I just recently found out that you retired as the show's counselor in Hollywood. I do have objections on you choosing CIA as your cover, but hell, if that works for you, go right ahead. I guess that job isn't too demanding, leaving you enough spare time."

"Are you offering me a job?" The voice now sounded relieved a little, with quiet caution. "I don't take side jobs. And if I heard correctly, you are retired too."

"Yeah, I don't do _that_ anymore. That's why I'm calling you, because we can both do a job, without doing a job. And get paid."

"Listening."

"I was approached by a ridiculously rich Indian businessman, who happens to be a huge fan of that show of yours."

"The Magnificent Seven?" Woodward huffed.

"Yeah, my reaction too. But he has one entire palace filled with cardboard cutouts of the seven guys, and he is worried he wouldn't get his weekly fix if something happened to the authors. He wants a silent watch over the safety of the writers on the show, but I can't take it. Too much time, no real danger, and annoying Hollywood people involved – no thanks. That's the part where you jump in – I'm willing to outsource that job to you. You're already there. You know the drill, and you can guarantee their safety, being close to them. He particularly wants that main woman, writer, author, whatever, to be monitored and kept safe."

"Florence McCoy?"

"Yeah, I think that's the name."

"Good, she is the sexy one. The other writers are fat, old geeks, half of them male. And weird."

He stopped the growl at the last second, and cleared his throat. "I will take the job, officially, so you're working for me. I want daily reports with all suspicious things you notice, though we both know there won't be any."

"Any contract?"

"Don't be stupid. We'll meet soon and arrange all the details, including the price. As far as I know they aren't shooting right now."

"No, they are expected back in L.A. soon. The writing part of Season seven will start some time during the next month."

"Perfect – enough time to settle everything. I'll call you."

He ended the call, put the phone on the sofa, and sank deeper into the backrest. Much to his surprise, he had problems keeping his eyes open.

Waters _were_ clear, he didn't lie to Hardison, though his body didn't know it yet for sure. It wouldn't be easy to switch from survival auto-pilot mode to the more relaxed mode.

He had something that could help; the mere thought of holding her in her sleep brought peace to his mind.

Time to call it a night.

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Whispers melded with his dreams; whispers of a voice mixed with a whisper of wind through the trees in some endless forest. This was a peaceful dream, for a change. He just walked and walked and searched for her. He opened his eyes into her amber gaze.

She elbowed a pillow, resting her chin on her entwined fingers, and stared at him.

Morning light came through the half closed curtains, and blurred all the edges.

"Something is different," she said. "You've slept the entire night. It took almost fifteen minutes of staring at you for you to wake up. Usually it only takes fifteen seconds."

"Good morning," he smiled. She was wrapped up in a robe, and her hair was still wet; the most beautiful sight to wake up to. He reached out to her, and only then did he realize what a mistake he made, when even that slow movement pulled at every bruise, and every hurt joint. He changed the move with gritted teeth, and turned onto his back.

He forgot how nasty the mornings after every fight were, and this time he'd had a continuous fight for days. For five years, he had managed to hide the after effects from the team, all that stiffness and pain, and the movements of an old arthritic man, closing himself away from them until he was able to show up as if nothing happened. He should've thought of that; she shouldn't have to see _this_.

"I was barely able to walk to the bathroom. Everything hurts, and I only walked, not fought, last night." she said with a grin. "Tell me, is there any part of you that doesn't hurt?"

She made it sound completely normal, and for the longest moment he wasn't sure why he wanted to hide it at all. Of course she would've known he would've felt broken. That was expected.

"Not really. And you?" He observed her bright eyes. They shone too bright, with too much red, and little swollen, but her smile was natural. Shadows of the night stayed in last night, and hadn't followed her into the morning.

She scrunched up her nose and darted him an uncertain look. He rearranged his list and put that nose squiggle as the three hundred and seventy-ninth beautiful thing on her. "I'm afraid I made quite a show of myself last night," she said. "The worst thing is that I usually don't remember half of it."

"Usually?"

"Uhm, it happened before, after the PVA, while in Mass Gen. You were taken into the operation theatre and I broke down. You know… hysterical crying, incoherent babbling, probably staggering around… usual stuff. Betsy endured it for more than an hour. Oh, she used that to get the entire report, step by step, of our PVA action, including editorial notes, but nevertheless, it wasn't… nice. I should've been stronger. I will, I promise."

He stared at her. "Don't ever say something that stupid again."

"That isn't stupid." She lowered her eyes, avoiding his stare. "I'm aware of my- oh! Look! A squirrel!"

He almost turned to the window.

"No, not a metaphorical, sentence interrupting squirrel! A literal squirrel, though a little abstract. And purple-ish." She pointed at his chest and stomach. "Your bruises are starting to connect. This one on the left, look – two rubber bullet bruises for the eyes, the scrape above it is like a pointy ear, and this looong wave of purple is a tail." She grinned at his squinting. "And that splotch on the other side looks like a hat."

He tilted his head to see the bruises; that hat-like bruise looked precisely like the imprint of a heavy boot. "I'm delighted that you find so much amusement in my troubles," he said. But that was true; he was. She could've been aghast and upset instead.

She rolled on the bed to the other side, and rolled back with a small tray. "I asked for band aids for my feet, and some cream and gel, and then I remembered you would need something for bruises and cuts," she said. "It came with breakfast, so decide: treatment or food first?"

"I don't need-"

"Nah-uh." She raised her finger.

"Look, I usually do it myself-"

"Eliot Spencer. The time of 'I usually do things myself' has passed."

She held his stare. He stared back.

Okay… the fact he usually did things his one way, didn't mean he couldn't, occasionally, change his mind. But this was a huge step. This was how he did those things, nasty things, the not-so-nice-things.

"Look at it this way: before, you didn't have anybody to take care of you. Now you have. What's the big deal? Yes, you're indestructible and tough, yadda-yadda – we all know that. We also know that you'll squeal if I poke that squirrel in the eye. Stop making a fuss and let me pamper you a little. Please?"

He tried to change his stare into a scowl, but he couldn't even get it to a mild glare. She was too normal for her own good – no, for his good – and whatever he said now would be crap. Unfortunately, she was also right. There wasn't any logical reason why he shouldn't accept that.

"Okay," he said. Carefully, and not entirely happily.

Her gleam was reward itself, and he had to admit this situation wasn't too bad for helping her feel useful. No nasty damage, wounds or broken bones, just a colorful potpourri of red, green and purple patterns.

She cleaned his cuts and scrapes, chitchatting all the while about things completely unrelated to any fighting, dense forestry or dead women, and thusly he relaxed entirely, closed his eyes and listened to her soothing voice.

Yeah, this was the type of morning he could get used to. Her fingers danced all over his bruises; her warm fingers caressing the cold gel into his skin helped to erase the stiffness from his knotted muscles, and eventually the pain subsided.

"And now, breakfast," she whispered when she closed the tube and snuggled closer into his side.

Her fingers continually traced random patterns across his skin, was his last thought before he sank back to sleep.

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"You're only allowed to follow my moves. When I move my hand, then you can, not before, not after. I want perfect synchronicity." The intensity in Eliot's eyes reminded Florence of the second time they'd woke up, but this gaze of his was even more concentrated. He hadn't blinked for almost three minutes. She counted. "We move together," he continued. He held her stare and she simply couldn't tear her gaze from him. "The same rhythm, darling, that's the most important part. One move, one mind, one body."

She sighed. "You know, if someone else was listening to this, they could be mistaken for thinking that you're talking about sex." She lowered her eyes – with effort – to the slice of salami she held between two of her fingers. Eliot had the same, identical to a microscopic level. She knew, she had watched him preparing both the salami and cheese slices, and with the baguettes cut and measured laid out on a table. She was positive that the Presidential Suite never witnessed this sort of food before.

"This is equally as important as sex."

"If you say so," she sighed again.

"Now shut up and concentrate. On my mark. Three, two…one."

She followed his hand, and they put salami on each baguette at the same time. The cheese followed. She had tried to cheat, but he slowed his hand when she did, glaring sideways at her. She held back a giggle and tried to look fully concentrated.

"Okay, now put the upper half of the baguette on top."

"Do I have to perform some sort of ritual dance while-" She choked her giggle when his eyes widened, put a somber and respectful expression on her face, and covered her sandwich with bread at the same moment he did.

"Now, don't touch it." He lifted his sandwich and took a cautious bite. "Okay, edible. Nothing special, just a normal sandwich. Now give me yours - no wait, don't, I'll take it."

She raised her eyebrows when he left his baguette on the other side of the table, and took hers with the caution of someone handling a test tube containing Ebola.

He took a bite, about the same size and chewed. After a second he coughed, choked, and spat it out onto the floor, jumping to his feet.

"What?"

His face aghast was completely priceless and she couldn't stop her laughter anymore.

"I can't even- this isn't possible. Identical, everything was fucking identical-"

She curled up into a ball on the sofa and laughed until tears poured out.

"Don't cackle! You did something to it, didn't you?"

"Nope." She straightened up again, and laughed into his glare. "I did exactly what you did, with the same food that you gave me. You know, I think this is a psychological issue on your part. On some sub-conscious level, you're fighting against me. I'm a threat."

"You are damn right you're a threat!" He took both sandwiches and stared at them in turn.

"I suggest putting them under x rays," she offered helpfully.

"Unbelievable," he murmured.

"You're sexy when you're confused," she said. "I think I'll confuse you more often. Perhaps, all the time.

"Hrmpf," he said. He flashed one more glare at her, turned on his heels and marched away, taking both sandwiches with him.

She wiped her tears and grabbed a slice of cheese for herself.

They went for a walk after lunch, buying clothes and ingredients for his experiment, and though her new shoes were comfortable sneakers, her feet hurt. And she was hungry again.

She looked at the cheese in her hand, and sighed. This relationship was demanding. He thought she didn't notice how seriously he had said that food was equally as important as sex. That weirdo _meant_ it.

_Complicated, maddening and demanding_. And that was a severe understatement.

First thing she'd do when she moved to L.A. to work on the next season would be to find some fabulous cooking course. She could let him show her the basics, and cooking together would be awesome, but their time in the future would be scarce. It would be better if she did it herself and then surprised him one day, with a complete meal.

She got up and grinned, plotting all details. "Can I eat my sandwich?" she called out. "I'm hungry."

"Nope, I threw it away. Too bad the Ritz doesn't have bio-hazard disposal containers," Eliot answered from the other room. "We'll go out to dinner."

She quickly calculated the time. "Jacuzzi before our walk?"

Silence.

"Eliot? Are you sulking now?"

"I don't trust a thing that once attacked me and tried to kill me. Take a shower instead."

"Oh, for god's sake, even paranoia has to have real-"

"Nope, that's my final."

She sighed again.

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After an hour in the Jacuzzi, with oodles of inevitable lavender and eucalyptus bubbles, and two hours of _getting dressed together_, Eliot was roughly back at the point where he had been when they started, so Florence considered that as a huge success. The Jacuzzi loosened the last few knots in his joints. _Getting dressed together_ strained them again.

He was far from complaining though.

"I was wondering why you chose The Ritz-Carlton," Florence said while they walked down the street towards the park in search for ice-cream. "Then I remembered that's Avery Street, and the Boston Opera House, where People's Voice Awards took place, is around the corner. Not even two minute walk from here." She looked at him sideways and smiled. "And the Ritz doesn't have card limited access to their lifts. That also helps."

"With what?"

She stopped and tapped her foot on the sidewalk. "We walked under this very street. Underground passages which we used for our retreat from the PVA go under entire block – and under The Ritz, too. You are ready for some eventual trouble?"

"I'm always ready for eventual trouble. But I'm glad you noticed that. Anything else?"

"There's more?"

"There's always more."

She huffed at his smug smile.

They crossed the street and entered the Boston Common Park. They could act like tourists without going so close to nature, ever again, but she wanted ice-cream badly, and this was the closest solution. Besides, all the grass here was trimmed, and not a single tree was entangled.

Eliot selected chocolate. She chose caramel-strawberry-vanilla-chocolate, and watched him fighting the need to say something about amount of it.

"I won't get fat," she said when they continued walking. "I can eat basically as much as I want."

"Yeah, I noticed that." His eyes slid down her figure, and he grinned. "Do you know how much sugar is in that tower you hold? Sooner or later it will show."

"Is that a warning? You won't want me anymore if I got fat?" She was kidding, of course, just teasing, but he twitched as if she had slapped him.

"Don't be ridiculous. There isn't any chance that I wouldn't want you. Ever. I don't care how you look, it's… more than that."

She stopped short. Being in love was such a problem; she couldn't articulate this feeling, couldn't find an appropriate sound to express this surge of happiness. He returned one step and wrapped his free arm around her waist. Damn ice-creams got in the way; she wanted to hug him with both arms.

She kissed him briefly – there were far too much children and other tourists around them – before chuckling. "You know, you're wrong. There is something I can do to prevent you from kissing me now. No, nothing gross. Just two very polite words."

"No way." He pulled her closer and his eyes sparkled with challenge. Only two thin layers of fabric divided them, but they weren't enough to stop the heat she felt; his face was mere two inches from hers and she had to put immense effort into her concentration. He leaned in and his lips brushed the corner of her mouth. "You really think you'll say something that would stop me from kissing you now?" _That whisper_.

She took a shaky breath and searched her memory. She wasn't good at doing voices, but…

"Hello, Spencer," she said in that husky, dry British accent.

"Ack!" He took a step back, disgust pouring from his face. He looked at her almost as perplexed as when he tasted her sandwich.

"See?" she gleamed at him.

"No, just no. Don't do that ever again."

Of course she immediately thought about the most inappropriate moment to say it again, and his eyes widened in horror. She really should work on her poker face. He was far too good at reading her.

"Now come back and kiss me, or-shit." She completely forgot about her cone. It melted at warp speed and her fingers were sticky. "I blame you for this. There should be a law against you and the heat you emanate."

"Yeah, I can put it in line. There are many laws against me, in case you didn't notice." He took her ice-cream and transferred the upper part of the tower onto his cone, then licked her fingers. She didn't need _that_, not now when they were in public.

She cleared her throat. "I got my ice-cream, we walked, we saw a park – can we go back to hotel now and check how your bruises are healing?"

"Nope. We need to talk."

She almost dropped the cone.

"Nothing serious, just a little troublesome. About your security," he quickly added. He took her by the hand and pulled her after him into a children's playground.

"A duck lesson, the extended edition?"

He gave her his cone and put her on the swing, and held the chains just watching her.

"Depending on your moving to L.A., I might have one more chance to see you here in Boston," he finally said. "I'll know when exactly after the Washington job, not before. It's quite possible that Nate already has clients waiting. I can't guarantee anything."

She licked both ice-creams and stayed silent. This was the first time he openly talked about their future, and she held her breath and her fingers crossed.

"You've had a taste of my life," he said. "Now you know that danger comes from all sides, without any warning. Do you understand now how important my paranoia is?"

"I'm okay with your paranoia as long as it doesn't stand in the way of seeing you again. I'm even willing to wait. Skip the next Boston meeting, and organize only L.A ones."

"There's nine hundred and sixty-four miles between Portland and L.A. That's a sixteen hour drive. Almost two and a half hour flight. Sooner or later, flying patterns will be traced, so I'll have to combine those two – drive half way, then take a flight, or some other combination."

"Or we can meet in the middle. Or we can go in turns. I can come to Portland, too."

"No. I don't want you near us. If someone only suspects we are together, and find out you traveled to Portland, that would be confirmation. You have to live exactly the same way you did before. But that's simple logistics; I'll deal with all the travelling arrangements. We have more important things to arrange."

He took a bite from his ice-cream in her hand and pushed her swing. She noticed he used the left arm to push her, and she doubted he did that by mistake. He had to push that shoulder into functioning mode, ready for the next job, by Sunday. She refused to start worrying about it now, and studied his face instead. He was serious.

"The essence of a duck lesson is: when you see something suspicious or worrying, never hesitate. Act like it is confirmed danger, at once. Before I leave, we'll go through all the security protocols. Things like what you have to do if I send you a warning; what to do if you see surveillance on you, if I'm killed, if you can't contact me, if somebody follows you. All steps to be used in hiding, retreat, means of communication, time-lines for each step, code words for various levels of trouble, sending and receiving-"

"Stop," she whispered.

He held the chain and anchored her back in to the starting position. She only raised her eyes to him; no words came.

"No other way, Florence." His voice was colored with regret. "You said you're willing to learn. The thing is… if you learn all this, that's it. If our luck holds, you won't have to use that knowledge, ever."

"But…"

"One more thing… stay close to your CIA counselor. Those guys know the drill, and you can grift more information from him, while pretending you're doing research for the show. Also, if something nasty happens while I'm too far away, go to him for protection."

"So basically, if I want to call you to tell you good night, I'll have to redirect four satellites, drive five circles around L.A using three different cars, have a sex-change operation, and then send you a pigeon carrier with a message in some ancient Mayan language? All while carrying a machine gun over my shoulder?" By the end her voice squeaked. He knelt by the swing and rested his elbows on her knees. There was definitely a smile in his eyes, and that lowered her alarm a little.

"I bought a bag full of burner phones," he said. "Enough to last until I see you again. Use one a day, and Hardison will make sure my side of conversation is covered. You can call me and text me any time you want."

Okay, that sounded better. She dreaded a long time without him, and the thought she wouldn't be able to hear him either, was too much.

She definitely didn't like this conversation; sitting there on the swing with two melting ice-creams, listening to this, this… pile of gibberish. It would take years before she would be able to learn all that. But even while she pondered all the difficulties, she felt an interest. All those complicated things were his life – knowing them better would mean knowing him better.

"When I think more about it," she said after a short thinking. "Learning all that will be interesting. I already know quite a lot. How much of it can I use in my episodes?"

She said the right thing; instantly the regret disappeared from his eyes, replaced with a fire that took her breath away. "What?"

He stared at her, now resting both his hands on her knees; this time her ice-cream melted over his fingers and he didn't notice it.

"Nothing," he breathed. "Nothing at all." He stood up in one swift move. "Do you still want to go back and check on my bruises?"

"Seriously?" She jumped from the swing. "What kind of stupid question is that?"

"Wait until you hear the next one… How often do you receive flowers from your fans?"

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Nate cut the last piece of bacon, and lowered the heat under the garlic. The phone between his ear and shoulder, with Eliot's monologue of seven minutes, almost slid in the pan at one point. He put it on the counter and onto speakerphone.

"…and buying two flowers shops, one in Boston, one in L.A. would spare me the trouble. It's easier to give direct orders than grift personnel to send the exact message you want. I've already sent Hardison specifications and by the time we're back to Portland from Washington, both flower shops will be functioning. I don't have to tell you how important it is to have the last, most critical, means of communication, for use in only the severest of troubles? And untraceable; she receives flowers on a daily basis."

Nate allowed himself to sigh now while the phone wasn't too close to his face. Sometimes, being right wasn't as thrilling as usual. He looked at Sophie, silent and invisible on the bar stool. She listened breathlessly, with a gentle smile, and when he raised his eyebrows at her, she just waved her hand away. He _had_ told her that Eliot would fall into this berserk paranoia spree. She obviously found that extremely cute.

"…of course, means of delivering the message multiply when flowers are in question. She will have to memorize all possible combinations. For example, three roses have one meaning, two orchids another… basically, I'll make an entire system just like those Navy flags I used to send you a message. Endless possibilities, and entire sentences."

Nate put bacon into the pan.

"What's that sound? Whatever you're doing, you're burning it. Lower the temperature, oil must have been spraying-"

"It's only bacon. Relax. I'm expecting Sophie for dinner."

"Good. You don't have to tell them all about Sterling, it's enough you know all the gory details. Be ready – he'll show up somewhere around you very soon. Maybe he just misses you."

"Right. Tell me again about Florence's steps with usual phone communication – before this last critical flower-shop solution – the one where there's thirty-five percent possibility of trouble from your side."

"That would be – wait, no names, Nate, I want you all to dismiss her name from your heads – that would be… thirty-five percent is Step nine, I think. I have to check. For Step nine, which isn't followed by Step ten, but with two variants- Nine A and Nine B-"

"Eliot."

"What?

"Do you remember The Gold Job, when Hardison led the case and when he terrorized us with his complicated-"

"This isn't complicated. It's logical, very simple and-"

"Before his plan went south and crumbled, I put a few words on paper for him to open when it was finished. Remember that?"

"My plans don't crumble, Nate."

"Of course they don't. I'm not saying they will. But – just for fun – I'll write down two words. Sophie will be my witness."

"What's with that 'two words' all of a sudden, all of you… Nope, there isn't anything that can go wrong with my plans. They are thorough and realistic. Are you stirring that bacon? It doesn't sound as it should. Bacon shouldn't sound as if it's writhing in pain, more like sunbathing on the beach. Lower that temperature."

"I'm sure your plans are thorough and realistic." Nate nodded. Sophie bit her lip; her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Okay, I have to go now; Sophie will be here any minute. I have the all-important info about Sterling, I lowered the temperature, and I know all your plans with Flo- with those flowers shops. Anything else?"

"Yeah. The next time, when I say wait for my signal, try to actually wait for it, okay?"

"I'll work on that."

Sophie waited until the sound of the call ending, and then she let out a cooing giggle.

"Told you so," Nate said. "And this isn't even the beginning."

"You really have two words that would destroy his planning?"

"Yep. Very simple. But he will come to that conclusion all by himself."

She took her glass and came closer to peek at the pan. "Maybe you're wrong. He is quite capable of pulling many strings together."

"Yeah, multitasking level: beast mode. I know. But not this time, not when he is emotionally involved. And I still think we had to show him that recording."

"No, Nate. Not while Sterling is still so close to him, in the same town."

Sophie took a remote and started the recording Hardison had sent them.

"_Interpol agent in charge of the operation, James Sterling, singlehandedly took down an entire sleeper cell of ten North Korean agents. There are rumors of a joint US and UK highest authorities working together to honor his bravery. Queen Elizabeth particularly might consider him the next candidate for_-" Sophie clicked the remote, and Sterling's smiling face disappeared.

"Do you think he can cause more trouble before Eliot leaves for Washington? They are still too close, both in Boston."

"Nah." Nate smiled. "I don't think so."

She took a small piece of bacon from the pan, and her eyes changed. "I was wondering… do you know Portland is actually very busy and very popular filming location? The Twilight was shot here…Grimm too. They have everything needed for an A production series."

"Your con voice, Sophie? Seriously? You want me to con CBS to move shooting to Portland so Eliot shouldn't have to drive to L.A? That's impossible."

She batted her eyelashes, took another bite, and just smiled.

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"Eliot Spencer." He heard a call behind the door. "Have you locked yourself in the bathroom? I've seen a great deal of your escaping to bathrooms, so don't try to fool me."

"Talking with Nate. And just finished."

He went out with the phone. Florence waited with her head tilted, and an evil smile. "Good. For the moment I thought you were negotiating with the Jacuzzi, though this one didn't show any hostility. Or you threatened it to behavior. Or perhaps you were seeking revenge for its cousin, which made you look like a half-drown rat."

"You do notice when your writer brain takes over, don't you?"

She wore only a robe, and mere mention of the Jacuzzi tilted his mind with too vivid images, but he shook his head. _Later_. _They had time_. "You couldn't have seen I took the phone," he continued, "and with water running it covered all sounds. Are you bluffing?"

"No." She grinned at him. "You have a tell. When retreating or hiding something you straighten up your back and keep your head a little higher than when you walk normally."

He threw the phone on the sofa, swept her off her feet, and carried her to the chair that looked through the glass wall. "Stay there." He went back to fetch their wine glasses left on the table, and turned off the main light.

The chair was spacious enough for both of them to sit in, especially when she snuggled deeper into his arms.

"Here's for Thursday ending." He knocked his glass with hers.

"Two more days," she whispered. "My mind knows it's just the end of our first meeting – but I wish I could explain that to my heart."

He rested his face on her hair and said nothing. They watched the Boston lights below them. He cleared his mind from all plotting and calculations. She would feel if his mind was too occupied, and the last thing he wanted now was to trouble her with any plans. They would have enough time for working that out later. This night, and both days they still had were not for thinking about the future. Becoming caught up in the cycle of fear and doubt could spiral out of control, unless he consciously intervened. This was for now, for the present.

After all, the future was made up of small presents, each separated in steps. Now, then _now_ again. That way, they could live.

"There is one thing that's positive in a long wait to see you again," she said quietly. "Every time it will be like a honey moon. Just like this."

He held his breath.

She couldn't know how close he was to asking her to marry him, back in the park. He hadn't ever seen something so beautiful as her right then, sitting on the swing with slouched shoulders, holding melting ice creams and frowning. That was an image he would carry forever with him; not her naked, or dazzling, or gorgeous in silk. _Smudges of chocolate on her chin, and ruffled hair_. Yet, he fought that impulse, a need to keep her forever; it took both a physical and mental struggle to stop himself. He was glad he managed not to blurt that out – that wasn't for him. For them. Yet.

That _yet_ put a smile on his face. He pulled her up to sit on him and put both their glasses by the chair so he could wrap his arms around her. Her robe slid off her shoulders, and the feel of her skin against his stifled his breath. He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent, while his hands began running across her shoulders, arms and waist. Remembering, caressing and embroidering that touch, this shiver of hers, deep into his mind.

Leaving her after two days would be the hardest thing in his life, because now he knew what exactly he had to leave behind. He knew every damn demanding, complicated and maddening part of this bundle in his arms.

Sorrow and love always mingled together. She felt it, too; she leaned back into him and even though he couldn't see her face, he knew her eyes were teary.

The softness of the moment wasn't for tears – it was for utterly happy smiles.

"Remember what you told me the first day?" he whispered. "We can't make our days longer. But we can make them wider."

She looked at him over her shoulder; Boston lights drew lace across her face. Yes, tears glistened in her eyes, but her smile ignited them with a sparkle.

Just what she did with him, with his life. His flame had died out, but she brought a sparkle and rekindled it.

"Wider, yes," she breathed. "And fulfilled."

She turned to him then, and her lips trailed across his collarbone.

It was his turn to shiver now.

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THE END

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* * *

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EPILOGUE

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"No, Amanda. I don't want oranges. Thank you. I want a bloody laptop. I want Nate Ford. And Spencer. Can you get them here? No? Then stop terrorizing me with damn fruit!"

Sterling expected a quiet _Yes, Sir_. He got twenty oranges poured into his lap and the door being slammed.

He pushed the fruit away and straightened in his bed. Sherrel and Kindra didn't offer to put pillows behind his back; they stood in parade stance with their arms crossed, and scowled at him.

He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, expending all his annoyance. "Look," he said, putting a reason in his voice. "It's Thursday morning. I've spent an entire night in hospital, the wound is taken care of, I've had IV fluids and blood, and everything I need, and now it's time to do our job. I don't have to sit here. I can sit in our vehicle. Spencer and Team Leverage had a job scheduled for Sunday, and I want to get to them before that."

Their scowl deepened.

"Fine. I'll stay. Now tell me, have you found all the restaurants and food facilities that have oca menu on Tuesday?"

"Yes, Sir. All two thousand two hundred and thirty nine." Kindra gave him a bunch of papers.

He went through the papers. "Listed by the State?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Great." He smirked at them and gave her the papers back. "When you hear someone say that you would have very little use of a solar charger for your phone, which States come to your mind first?"

"Hawaii, Washington, Oregon, Georgia? They are all rainy."

"Hawaii is too far away, Eliot wouldn't have enough time to fly into Boston after the episode." He stopped for a second. He couldn't believe he just called him Eliot. The agents didn't notice that, so he went on, "Georgia is too close to Boston, they usually move to opposing States. That leaves us with Washington and Oregon."

Kindra shuffled through the papers, and put most of it away. She handed him four papers.

"I don't have to look at them." He put them on the bed and secured them with an orange. "This is Nate Ford, people – and I know Nate Ford. Now, I don't believe I haven't figured it all out at once, but we are all very wise generals after the battle. Our Headquarters is in Portland. That means Nate Ford is there, too. I'll have to check the entire Highpoint Tower to make sure their new offices aren't in our building- that would be just like him." He pointed at the papers. "For now, take Portland. One of those restaurants, small hotels, cafeterias or breweries is owned by the Leverage team."

"Do you want surveillance on them?"

"No. I'll go there myself. That's why it's important I get there before they leave for that job on Sunday. I can walk. I can fly there. Give me my shoes and we can be in Portland before Thursday ends."

"That's against doctor's orders," Kindra said. "Now tell me… what are we going to do with Florence McCoy? Keep an eye on her? Spencer will surely come to her again."

No. That woman deserved to be left alone. She fought and won that prize. Now with their almost confirmed location in Portland, she wasn't his only trail to Spencer. He expected everything from Spencer, but this was a surprise. Spencer brought him directly to the ER entrance last evening and left him with paramedics. That was a fair thing to do – this time he could return the favor.

And that reminded him of something else. "I want all ten Koreans transferred to our super-secret jail. That way no word about Florence's involvement with Spencer will ever get out to other ears that might use that."

Sherrel took her tablet and made a note. "One more thing, Sir."

"Yes?"

"Megan and Merlin applied for Interpol. For our team. They have a letter of recommendation from Maddox."

"No way. They wear those shiny things on their teeth, for crying out loud! In twenty years, maybe."

Deadly silence.

"We like them." Both Kindra and Sherrel said at the same time.

"Look, be reasonable-"

"We like them _a lot_."

The joys of working with an all-female team. "I'll think about it. I will-" He stopped, eyed their dazzling smiles, and gave up on finishing his sentence.

"Now go away and be useful," he said and pressed a button to call for a nurse, closing his eyes.

One of them took the papers from the bed and removed the offending oranges. He listened to their steps and opening of the door. Finally, silence fell in the small room.

When he opened his eyes a minute later, a lithe black nurse stood there in front of him. He didn't hear her coming.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "I'd like to have my clothes and belongings back. I've been very well treated and am extremely satisfied with your services, but I don't need them anymore. Please, bring my bill, too. I'm ready to leave. Now."

She tilted her head a little, watching him.

Damn, he was in a hurry; he didn't have time for slow thinking nurses. "Dear lady. The last word sums it up. _Now_."

"Your bill is covered." She came closer to the bed, and checked his chart. "Why are you intent on leaving?"

"Because I have something important to do in the next couple of days."

"No." Her eyes turned gentle. "I have special orders to make sure you're properly healed and recovered. And in bed for at least four days."

"No?" He snorted a word. "You found the wrong person to play with. Ever heard of LAMA? Leaving Against Medical Advice? Now please go and find someone faster and suitably skilled in their job, to tell you which documents you should bring me. Paper, as in white rectangle sheets with black lettering, saying: Release Form for patients to read and sign prior to leaving hospital against medical advice, relinquishing the hospital and medical staff of any responsibility relating to the patient's decision or its subsequent consequences."

She sat on his bed, and he withdrew a little. Maybe she wasn't a nurse at all, but a patient… Mass Gen did have a psychiatric section. He narrowed his eyes and locked onto hers.

She slowly reached up to his face, and to his utter consternation, slid with the back of her fingers across his cheek. The hair on his neck stood up.

"You're adorable," she said.

And she smiled. Calmly.

.

.

THE END


End file.
